Historical tales from Shakespeare

HISTORICAL TALES

T:° FROM

3HAKESPEARE

--- .T. Q.UILLER-COUCH

1/6

Presented to the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
LIBRARY

by the

ONTARIO LEGISLATIVE
LIBRARY

1980

HISTORICAL TALES
FROM SHAKESPEARE

P,Y

A. T. QUILLER- COUGH

ILLUS

LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD

All rights reserved

PREFACE

ALTHOUGH in the following pages I have chosen those plays,
or most of them, which Charles and Mary Lamb omitted
from their Tales from Shakespeare, and although I have
taken a title very like theirs, my attempt has not been to
round off or tag a conclusion to their inimitable work. They,
as wise judges of what their book should be, found that a
certain class of play lay outside their purpose. It is just
these plays — the historical ones — which, with a different
purpose, are here cast into narrative form.

It appeared to the friend who suggested this book, and
to me, that nowhere, in spite of many inaccuracies, can
historical pictures be found so vivid or in the main so just
as in these historical plays of Shakespeare. We were think
ing especially of the plays from English history. But
our own experience seemed to show that many young
readers fight shy of them, and so miss much which might
quicken their interest in history and their early patriotism,
being deterred perhaps by the dramatic form and partly by
the sophisticated language. (For although even a very
young reader may delight in Shakespeare, it takes a grown
one and a wise one to understand his full meaning.) And
we asked ourselves, " Is it possible, by throwing the stories
into plain narrative form, and making the language more
ordinary, to represent these vivid pictures so that young
readers may be attracted to them — yet reverently, and in
the hope that from our pale, if simple, copies they may be led
on and attracted to his rich and wonderful work ?"

This, at any rate, was my task : not to extract pleasant
and profitable stories, as one might (and as the Lambs did)
from the masterpieces of Shakespeare's invention, but to
follow him into his dealings with history, where things

iv PREFACE

cannot be forced to happen so neatly as in a made-up tale,
and to persuade my young audience that history (in 'spite of
their natural distrust) is by no means a dull business when
handled by one who marvellously understood the human
heart and was able so to put life into the figures of men and
women long passed away that they become real to us as we
follow their thoughts and motions and watch them making
love, making war, plotting, succeeding, or accepting reverses,
playing once more the big drama which they played on

earth.

For although "history" means properly "inquiry" or
"research," and threatens nowadays to be a pursuit only
enjoyable by a few grown-up persons, when taken in hand
by such a poet— or " maker "—it becomes again a story in
the familiar sense, a moving tale which everyone can under
stand and enjoy, children no less than their elders. There
had to be this difference, however, between the Lambs'
stories and those which I set myself to repeat from Shakes
peare — that whereas they had only to rehearse the plot of
The Merchant of Venice, for instance, and the result was
a pretty and, for their readers, a novel tale, if I contented
myself with doing this to the historical plays I should be
telling children little more than they already knew from their
text-books. It seemed necessary, therefore, to lay more
stress on the characters in these plays, and on the many
springs of action, often small and subtle ones, by uncovering
which Shakespeare made history visible ; to keep to the
story indeed, but to make it a story of men's motives and
feelings, as well as of the actual events they gave rise to or
were derived from.

For the sake of the story in this sense I have often
followed Shakespeare where he is inaccurate, though I have
sometimes corrected without comment where a slight
correction could do no harm. It seemed to me equally
uncalled-for on the one hand to talk of Decius Brutus and
on the other to omit the tremendous reappearance of Queen

PREFACE v

Margaret in Richard the Third ; equally idle to tie myself to
the stage-chronology of King John and to set it elaborately
right ; alike unnecessary to repeat Shakespeare's confusion
of the two Edmund Mortimers in one play and officious
to cut out Mortimer's farewell in another on the ground that
it is untrue to fact. The tale's the thing ; else what becomes
of Faulconbridge, Falstaff, Fluellen ? In general, therefore,
I have made it my rule to follow Shakespeare so long as he
tells his story with fairness and justice.

It would be a great pleasure to believe that Shakespeare
was always fair and just ; to be convinced (with the illus
trious poet who allows me to dedicate my book to him) that
Shakespeare had no hand in the slanderous portrait of Joan
of Arc sent down to us under his name. But, convinced or
not, no writer with a conscience could repeat that portrait
for the children in whom are bound up our hopes of a better
England than we shall see. Were he to do so, I believe
that, thanks to such books as Green's Short History of the
English People* and Mr. Andrew Lang's A Monk of Fife,
our schoolboys would reject it with scornful disgust. It is
enough to say that here they will not be given the chance ;
since to-day, if ever, it is necessary to insist that no patriot
ism can be true which gives to a boy no knightliness or to
a girl no gentleness of heart.

Of true and fervent patriotism these plays are full.
Indeed, though they are, in Charles Lamb's words,
" strengtheners of virtue " in many ways, that remains their
great lesson. It has been said that the real hero of Shake
speare's historical plays is England ; and no one can read
them and be deaf to the ringing, vibrating note of pride, of
almost fierce joy to be an Englishman, to have inherited
the liberties of so great a country and be a partaker in her
glory. And this love of England is the sincerer for the

* To which, as to a classic, I have gone for what the play denies ;
even for some of its language, remembering the effect it had .upon me
as a boy.

vi PREFACE

courage with which he owns and grieves that she has been
sometimes humiliated, sometimes untrue to herself. But as
if this were not enough, he has left us— in Faulconbridge,
in King Harry, in the two Talbots— lofty yet diverse ex
amples of what patriotism can do ; and again in Coriolanus
and Marcus Brutus particular warnings of how even able
men who love their country may, by a little unwisdom,
injure her and wreck themselves. In short, and with the
single exception named, these plays might almost serve as
a handbook to patriotism, did that sacred passion need one.
For nowhere surely in literature is it so confidently nourished
and at the same time so wisely and anxiously directed.

And now, having excused my purpose, let me try to
excuse my method also. I started, in my reverence for
Charles and Mary Lamb, with some thought of tying myself
by their rules of diction, and admitting no word which had
not at least a warrant somewhere in Shakespeare. But I
soon found (i) that the difference of design baulked my pen,
and often in an irritating manner ; and (2) that although I
might hope to ape their examples with success enough to
deceive many, yet in my heart I was conscious how far
short the attempt must fall of that natural easy grace which
was theirs alike by genius and by years of loving familiarity
with Shakespeare. Every man whose lot it is to write a
great deal discovers his own manner, and does his best in
that. So I resolved to use my own, and trust to telling the
tales as simply and straightforwardly as I could. Now for
my purpose it was necessary to be continually breaking up
the rhythm of Shakespeare's majestic lines, and reducing
them to ordinary prose ; and there remains an apology to
make to the critics who, with Shakespeare's lines in their
memory, find this hard to tolerate. I ask them to remember
that these stories are not intended for grown-up persons who
know Shakespeare more or less by heart, but for children
to whom their first reading of him is a pleasure to come.

A. T. QUILLER-COUCH.

CONTENTS

PAGE

CORIOLANUS 9

JULIUS CAESAR -' 39

KING JOHN - - 70

KING RICHARD THE SECOND - 92

Q KING HENRY THE FOURTH - 116

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 183

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 214

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 257

APPENDIX - 299

HOTSPUR, GLENDOWER, AND MORTIMER IN COUNCIL.
(From a print in the Boydell collection after R. Westall, R.A.)

HISTORICAL TALES FROM
SHAKESPEARE

. CORIOLANUS

FIVE hundred years before the birth of Christ there lived
in Rome a man of noble family named Cams Marcius.
One of his ancestors, Ancus Marcius, had been King of
Rome, and of the same house were afterwards descended
the Marcius who was surnamed Censorinus, from having
twice held the censorship, the most venerable office in the
commonwealth, and Publius and Quintus Marcius, who
together built the great aqueduct which supplied the city
with pure water. So that altogether this house of Marcius
was a very important one in Rome, and also a very proud one.
But of all its members none was ever so proud as this
Caius Marcius, whose story we have to tell. His father died
when he was quite a child, and thus his training fell into
the hands of his widowed mother, the Lady Volumnia. In
some respects it could not have fallen into better, for in those
days the quality honoured above all others in Rome was man
liness, and Volumnia, like a true Roman mother, set herself
from the first to encourage her boy in all those manly pur
suits to which she saw him inclined by nature. As a child
he was taught to handle weapons, to exercise his body, and
to endure hard living, so that he became swift in running,
dexterous in sword-play, and so strong in wrestling that no
man could ever throw him. And when he was but sixteen

10 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

she sent him off to the wars. " For," said she, " had I a
dozen sons, and each one as dear to me as my Cams, I had
rather have eleven die nobly for their country than one
live at home in idle indulgence."

The war to which she sent Caius had been stirred up by
Tarquin the Proud, the expelled King of Rome, in the hope
of winning back his kingdom. The boy distinguished him
self in his first battle, bestriding a Roman soldier who had
been beaten to the ground beside him, and slaying the
assailant with his own hands. For this feat, when the fight
was over and the Roman side victorious, his general caused
Caius Marcius to be crowned with a garland of oak-leaves,
a coveted honour, and only bestowed on one who saved the
life of a fellow-Roman. Deep was Volumnia's joy when
he returned to her with his brows thus bound ; while, as
for Caius, this first success so spurred his valour, that he
soon became known as the bravest fighter in Rome, and
though not yet one of her generals — by reason of his youth
— yet the first of her warriors, and the swordsman on whom
her armies doted and her generals depended.

To this his love and passionate pursuit of honour had led
him. But what he and his mother forgot, or perhaps never
saw clearly, was this — that the love and pursuit of honour
may be so mixed up with pride as to become but a kind of
selfishness ; a very sublime kind of selfishness, no doubt,
but none the less a disease. Caius Marcius was arrogantly
proud, proud of his family, and, as time went on, insuffer
ably proud on his own account ; and this self-esteem, while
it taught him to scorn all mean actions and petty personal
gain, made him churlish and uncivil of speech to all whom
he looked upon as his inferiors.

Now the Romans at this time, and for long years after,
were divided into two classes, the Patricians and the Ple
beians. To the Patricians belonged the old governing
families of Rome, descendants of the first founders of the
city, a nobility keeping the chief power in their own hands,

CORIOLANUS 11

trained in war and looking upon war as the one occupation
which became their dignity. The Plebeians, on the other
hand, were an undisciplined and oppressed crowd of traders,
handicraftsmen, labourers, and idlers, having this on their
side, that they grew in numbers with the growth of the city,
until the Patricians, though they still despised, could no
longer ignore them.

The chief ground of the Plebeians' complaint, among
many, lay in the usury practised upon them by their rich
masters. The poor man, unable to pay the heavy interest
charged, was not only deprived of his goods but taken and
sold into bondage, notwithstanding the wounds and scars he
showed which he had received in fighting for Rome ; and
this, they urged, was a violation of the pledge given in the
late wars, when they had been persuaded to fight, and had,
indeed, fought faithfully, under a promise of gentler treat
ment. But when the war was done this promise had not
been kept. The common people, indeed, were very nearly
starving, and the angrier because the city held great stores
of corn, which they firmly believed were being kept by the
Patricians for their own use.

Their discontent began to break out in tumults and street
riots, and word of this soon came to the ears of the neigh
bouring states, which were jealous of Rome (with very good
reason) and watching for an opportunity to do her a mischief.
They believed this opportunity to be come, and prepared to
invade her ; and to meet them the Roman Senate made
proclamation by sound of trumpet that all men who were of
age to carry weapons should come and enter their names on
the muster-roll. The Plebeians refused to come ; they had
been tricked once with promises (they said), and would not
give their masters another chance.

In this fix it began to occur to some of the Senators that
they had been too hard upon the poor Plebeians, and many
were now for softening the law. But others held out against
this, and none so stubbornly as Caius Marcius. In his

12 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

proud opinion these Plebeians were vile dogs and the scum
of the earth, and he never scrupled to tell them so to their
faces. That he and this dirty, cowardly rabble were men
of like flesh and blood was a thing past belief, and since he
never opened his mouth to them but to call them curs and
worse, it may be fancied how they hated him even while
they admired him for a brave soldier.

The Senate consulted for many days, but thanks to
Marcius and his party no good came of their discussions.
The Plebeians, seeing no redress, took a bold step ; they
gathered themselves together and marched out of the city
in a body, using no violence, but crying as they went that
Rome had no place for them, and that therefore they must
go into wide Italy to find free air, water, and earth to bury
them ; and so passing out beyond the gates, they encamped
on a hill beside the Tiber, called the Sacred Mount.

This stroke fairly disconcerted the Senators, who now
sent out some of their number to treat with the malcon
tents, and among them one Menenius Agrippa, a friend of
Caius Marcius. This Menenius was an old man, not over-
wise, and certainly no great friend to the Plebeians ; but
having a blunt, hail-fellow way with him which the people
liked. He could use his tongue roughly, but for all that he
knew how to tackle a crowd in its own humour, and put in
just the shrewd hits which folk of that class enjoy in a public
speaker. He wasted no fine words on them, but went
straight to the point with a homely proverb. " What is
this ? You say that while you sweat and starve, your rich
masters eat and grow fat ? Did you ever hear tell of the
Belly and the Members ? Once upon a time all the mem
bers of man's body rebelled against the belly, complaining
that it alone remained in the midst of the body, eating all
the food and doing nothing, while the rest of them toiled
early and late for the body's maintenance— the eye seeing,
the ear hearing, the legs walking, and so with the rest. But
the belly smiled— by the way, you never heard of such

CORIOLANUS 13

a thing as a belly smiling, did you ? Well, it did, though ;
and it answered, " That's true enough that I first receive
and (so to speak) cupboard all the meats which nourish
man's body ; but afterwards, look you, I send out nourish
ment to all the other parts and limbs. And just so, my
friends, the Senate of Rome digests and sends out that which
benefits you and all members of the state."

Menenius told this old tale so aptly, singling out one who
interrupted, and addressing him as the Great Toe, that he
very soon had his audience laughing ; and in this good
humour they consented with the Senate to come back,
on condition that there should be chosen every year five
magistrates, called Tribunes, whose special business should
be to protect the poor people from violence and oppression.

Caius Marcius was furious when he heard of this conces
sion. He had scoffed at the people's stale complaints — that
they were hungry, that even dogs must eat, that meat was
made for mouths, and the gods did not send corn for rich
men only. " The rabble," he declared, " should have pulled
the roof off the city before I would have given way and
granted them these five fellows to defend their vulgar
wisdom."

His rage was diverted for the moment by the news that
the Volscians, the chief enemies of Rome, had taken up
arms and were in full march upon the city. They had
a leader, too, Tullus Aufidius, whom Marcius longed to
encounter. The two had met before this, and found each
other worthy foes : and between them, apart from their
countries' quarrel, there had grown up a fierce but generous
rivalry. " He is a lion I am proud to hunt," said Marcius ;
and with his own big arrogance. " Were I anything but
what I am, I would wish to be Tullus Aufidius." In the
campaign for which he was now eager the chief command
did not fall to Marcius. By Roman rule this rested with the
Consul for the year, Cominius, a gallant commander under
whom he was proud to serve as Cominius was glad to have

14 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

his services. But as Marcius, always courteous to his
equals, begged Cominius to precede him and lead the way,
he could not resist turning for a parting shot at the
assembled rabble. "The Volscians have much corn.
Shall we take these rats with us to gnaw their granaries ?"
But at the mention of fighting the crowd had begun to
melt. " Worshipful mutineers, your valour comes forward
bravely ! Pray follow !"

So Marcius departed for the wars, followed by the sullen
hatred of the poorer citizens and their newly -chosen
Tribunes, and by the prayers of his own women-kind, sitting
at home at their household work and waiting for news. But
no two prayers could well have been more different in spirit
than those offered up by Volumnia, his mother, and Virgilia,
his gentle-hearted wife. The one rejoiced that her son had
gone to win honour and prove his manhood once more, and
her pictures of him as the two sat at their sewing terrified
the softer Virgilia, who shuddered at the name of bloodshed,
and besought Heaven to spare her husband from death.
" The gods bless him from that fell Aufidius !" " Aufidius !"
cried Volumnia ; " he'll beat Aufidius' head lower than his
knee, and then tread on his neck !" But Virgilia could not
be quite comforted by this lively picture. She sat and
quaked, and would not be tempted out of doors even when
her gossiping acquaintances came with news of the
campaign, which was now centred upon the Volscian town
of Corioli.

Upon this important town the Consul Cominius had
directed his march. But hearing that the rest of the
Volscians were massing their forces to relieve it, he divided
his army into two parts. To the one part, which included
Marcius and was commanded by Titus Lartius, one of the
bravest of the Roman generals, he entrusted the siege
of Corioli ; while with the other he himself marched out
into the country to meet and grapple with the relieving
forces.

CORIOLANUS 15

The men of Corioli, disdaining the numbers of the division
he left behind, were not slow in making a sortie, and at the
first onset succeeded in beating back the Romans to their
trenches. But Marcius, heaping curses on the runaways
and calling on the stoutest fighters to rally and follow him,
replied with a superb charge which drove the assailants back
to their open gates, through which he hurled himself at their
heels — almost alone, for the rain of arrows and javelins from
the walls brought his followers to a halt. The Coriolans
thereupon slammed-to the city gates, shutting him inside,
and Titus Lartius, arriving a little later, was fully persuaded
he must have perished. But Marcius meanwhile had laid
about him with incredible spirit, and actually hewed his way
back to the gates ; so that even while Titus lamented him,
these flew open again, and our hero appeared covered with
blood, but keeping his pursuers well at bay.

Now was the Romans' chance. They poured in to his
rescue, and in a very short time the city was theirs. The
baser soldiery then and there fell to sacking and plundering,
though across the plain could be distinctly heard the noise
of fighting where Cominius and his division had fallen in
with the relieving force under Tullus Aufidius, and was
being hotly beset. Marcius abhorred this vulgar pillaging,
and most of all at such a time when, for aught they knew,
their general urgently needed help. The thought of his
rival, too, and the chance of encountering him, spurred him
to fresh exertions, and he begged Titus Lartius to retain
only a force sufficient to hold the city, and dispatch him with
the rest to Cominius's relief. To this the old commander
readily assented, and Marcius flew on his errand.

His aid was needed. Cominius had been forced to give
ground before Tullus Aufidius' attack, and was drawing
his men off, albeit in good order, and with none of the
violent scolding to which Marcius would have given way in
a like reverse. Still the position was grave, and was not
made more cheerful by the report of a messenger who had

16 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

seen Titus Lartius and his men driven back on the trenches
at the beginning of the fight, and knew nothing of their later
success. But the well-known shout of Marcius as he dashed
up to the rescue, and his brief tidings that Corioli had
fallen, quickly dispelled this gloom and gave the men heart
for a second attack. He demanded to be told of the
Volscians' order of battle, and on which side they had placed
their best fighting men ; and learning that the flower of their
warriors, the Antiates, were in the van and led by Aufidius,
he besought leave to be set directly against these. This
Cominius granted, and as the two armies advanced to their
second encounter, Marcius outstripped his company, and so
fiercely charged and cut a lane through the Antiates that
the press of Romans following into the gap cut the Volscian
array in half, and broke it up. Even so he would not desist
from fighting, but calling out that it was not for conquerors
to faint, pressed forward until the defeat became a rout and
the Volscians were chased off the field with great slaughter.
In their last rally Marcius for a moment had the joy of
finding himself face to face with Aufidius, and the two were
exchanging blows when a knot of Volscians came to the
succour of their commander and against his will bore him
off, to nurse a fiercer longing than ever for revenge. Up to
this his hatred of Marcius had been a soldierly one, but now,
in the bitterness of defeat, he felt, for the moment at any
rate, that he could stick at nothing to be even with the man
who had met him already these five times, and always come
off with the advantage. " Were he sick, asleep, naked, in
sanctuary, nay, my own brother's guest, none of these
protections," swore Aufidius, " should hinder me from
washing my fierce hand in his heart !"

The next morning the Consul Cominius, having entered
Corioli, mounted a chair of state, and in the presence of the
whole army gave thanks to the gods for the great victory.
Especially he thanked them that Rome had such a soldier
as Caius Marcius, and engaged that the citizens at home

CORIOLANUS 17

should echo him. But Marcius would have none of this
praise. With a humility which really covered an insane
pride — a pride which resented even the suggestion that
valour in him could possibly be surprising — he protested
that he had done no more than Lartius, for instance, had
done : " and that's the best I can." His wounds (he said)
smarted to hear themselves thus recognised. When
Cominius offered him a tithe of all the horses and treasure
captured, he begged to be forgiven for refusing this " bribe
to pay his sword," as he put it. To his credit he had an
entire contempt for private riches ; but this refusal again
smacked at least as much of pride as of disinterestedness.
" You are too modest," Cominius insisted ; " and if you will
indeed be such an enemy to your own deserts, give us leave
to treat you as they treat madmen who seek their own
hurt — that is, put you in handcuffs first and then reason
with you. Be it known, then," he raised his voice, " that
for his valour I present Caius Marcius with the crown of
this war, that I beg him to accept my own horse and
harness, and in addition proclaim that henceforth, for his
deeds before Corioli, he be known to all the world as we
here applaud him — CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS !"

This compliment, paid before the whole army and ac
claimed with shouts and the noise of drum and trumpet, our
hero could not refuse. " Let me go wash the blood from
my face," he answered, " and then you shall perceive whether
I blush or no. But, sir, although I have received princely
gifts, I have a boon yet to beg." " It is yours before you
ask it," said Cominius. " There is among the Volscians an
old friend and host of mine, a man who once used me
kindly. I saw him taken prisoner yesterday, but I was
pursuing Aufidius, and in my heat I neglected him. It
would do me great pleasure if I could save him from being
sold as a slave." " A noble request and readily granted.
What is your friend's name ?" " By Jupiter, I have
forgotten " It was his own fine action, not the prisoner, he

2

18 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

was thinking of; and so at the moment when nothing
seemed too small for his magnanimous remembrance his
selfishness betrayed him.

Caius Marcius — or Coriolanus as we shall henceforth call
him — had reached the height of his renown. At home even
the discontented Plebeians were awed by the lustre of his
exploits, and the path lay open before him to the Consulship,
the highest honour Rome could bestow, and beyond that to
a great and useful career. Volumnia and Virgilia went
forth with the crowd that welcomed him into the city, the
one praising the gods for his honourable wounds, the other
stopping her tender ears at the mention of them. And such
a crowd it was ! Dignified priests jostled with nursemaids
and kitchen wenches for a sight of the hero ; fine ladies,
regardless of their complexions, having found their stations,
sat for hours in the sun's eye to await his coming and throw
him their gloves and kerchiefs as he passed. Stalls,
windows, parapets, ridge-roofs were thronged. It was
faces, faces everywhere ; faces of all complexions, but all
agreeing in their earnestness to catch one glimpse of
Coriolanus. His worst enemies, the Tribunes, marked all
this and agreed among themselves that the great prize of the
state, the Consulship— the one gift left for his mother to
desire for him — lay within his grasp. And they foresaw
well enough that should Coriolanus be Consul their own
office might (as they put it) " go to sleep."

But among these Tribunes were two, Junius Brutus and
Sicinius Velutus, astuter than the rest. They watched the
exultant entry, and kept their tempers even while Menenius
Agrippa (our old friend of the " Belly and the Members "
story) jibed at them for envying the Patrician triumph.
They bided their time.

For a Roman who sought the Consulship had to observe
certain formalities which they foresaw must go sorely against
the grain with Coriolanus. In particular, custom required
him to appear on the day of canvassing in a humble dress,

CORIOLANUS 19

wearing only a white tunic like any mere workman, without
the flowing cloak, or toga, which marked a Roman of birth ;
and to solicit each vote as a favour, giving reasons why he
thought himself worthy to be Consul, and perhaps even
displaying the wounds he had earned in his country's service.
For the moment, no doubt, the Plebeians were disposed to
forgive Coriolanus' past rancour and to let bygones be by
gones. But a very little offensiveness might revive the old
dislike and turn the scale against him, and these two clever^
Tribunes believed they might count on his turning restive
and showing some of his old arrogance during the canvass.

As it turned out, they were right. At first Coriolanus'
candidature went well enough. He had the Senate's sup
port, and this his commander Cominius announced before
a public assembly in a speech which lauded him to the
skies. Coriolanus would not stay to listen to it ; he had
already undergone too much of this praise for his taste, and
he had not the least desire to hear all his exploits recounted
once more, and himself compared as a warrior to a ship in
sail and treading men like weeds under its stem. But he
returned to hear that the Senate approved his election, and
it only remained for him to speak to the people. Upon this
(as the Tribunes had expected) he asked leave to be excused
the indignity of the canvass, a permission wrhich they were
too cunning to grant. Assured now that there were diffi
culties ahead, they went off to drill the people, so that the
questions put to him, and the manner of putting them,
might be providentially irritating to his temper.

The day of canvass arrived, and Coriolanus appeared in
the market-place clad in his candidate's tunic, and feeling
hot and very much ashamed of himself. The citizens, who
had gathered in knots to await his coming, dispersed at
once, and, as their cue was, advanced by ones, twos, and
threes to put their questions. From the first Coriolanus
was not happy in his manner towards them. " What am
1 to say ?" he asked Menenius Agrippa by his side : " surely

20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

you would not have me ask, ' What, do you want to see my
wounds ? Here they are then— I got them in my country's
service when some of your brethren roared and ran away
from the sound of our own drums.' " " Good heavens !"
cried Menenius, "you must not speak of that! Talk to
them reasonably, as for their good." "For their good?
Shall 1 tell them to go home, then, and wash their faces ?"

The very first knot of citizens began to catechise him in
a style not likely to improve his temper. This was a great,
day for them, and they felt a high sense of their own im
portance. "Tell us, sir, what brings you to stand here?"
They insisted upon all the formalities. " My own desert,"
snapped Coriolanus. " Your own desert ?" " Ay, not my
own desire." " How not your own desire ?" " No, sir ; it
was never my desire yet to beg of the poor." " You must
think, sir," put in one specially offensive catechiser, " that
if we give you anything we hope to gain something from
you." Coriolanus appeared to be vastly impressed by this,
which, to be sure, was a somewhat shopkeeper-like view of
.the position. "Ah," he answered, "pray tell me then your
price for the Consulship." " The price, sir," interposed
another with better sense, " is to ask it kindly." " Kindly?"
Coriolanus pitched his voice in a mocking key : " Sir, I pray
you let me have it. I have wounds to show, and will show
them to you — in private. Your good vote, sir; what say
you ? May I count on it ?" " You shall have it, worthy
sir," promised a citizen, whose wits happened to be too
thick to catch the sarcasm. " That makes two worthy votes
begged then. I have your alms. Good-day !" Coriolanus
turned on his heel. "There's something odd about this,"
grumbled the voter who had talked about exchange ; and
even the thick-witted one muttered that " if his vote could
be given again — but no matter !"

The truth is that even the meanest of us feels a certain
importance when he has something to give, and likes to be
asked for it politely. Coriolanus was at once too narrowly

CORIOLANUS 21

proud to see what every great leader of men must see, that
all men have their feelings and these must not be rough-
ridden but understood, and too honestly proud to stoop to
devices which other politicians used while despising them.
He did, indeed, go through the form of observance, but
with an insolent carelessness which made it worse than
omission. Nor was his a noble carelessness, as one humble
and mistaken observer had termed it. It was not that he
did not care, but that in his heart he hated these Plebeians.
He felt all the while how false his position was, and by and
by, as this feeling became intolerable, he broke out bitterly,
" Here come more votes ! Your votes, pray ! For your
votes I have fought and kept watch ; for your votes I carry
two dozen odd wounds, and have seen thrice six battles —
or heard of them. Pray, pray, give me your votes then, for
indeed I want to be Consul !"

Puzzled and angered, yet remembering his past services,
they gave him their votes. To this — as their Tribunes
presently discovered with some dismay — they stood com
mitted. Coriolanus had gone off to change his detestable
garments, and, as he put it, " know himself again."
Nothing remained but to confirm the election. Yet the
temper of the people was sulky, and Brutus and Sicinius
quickly perceived that all was not lost. " What ? Could
you not see he was mocking you ? Could you not have
insisted that as Consul he would be the state's servant, and
have pressed your claims and tied him by a promise to
serve you instead of speaking, as he always has spoken,
against your liberties and charters ? Had you not a man's
heart amongst you, that you suffered all his contempt and
gave him just what he asked ?" " It is not too late yet,"
cried the citizen who had talked about exchange ; " the
election is not yet confirmed !" " Be quick then, and re
voke this ignorant choice of yours ! Stay — put the fault
on us. Say that we, your Tribunes, over-persuaded you by
laying stress on his great deeds and his ancestry, but that

22 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

on second thoughts you find him your fixed enemy and
regret our advice — our advice, mind ! Harp on that."
" We will !" shouted the crowd, who by this time repented
the election almost to a man. They rushed off to the
Capitol, and Brutus and Sicinius followed to watch this
pretty storm of their raising.

Coriolanus, who fully deemed himself Consul elect, and
was so deemed by the Senators, was talking among them
with Titus Lartius, newly returned from Corioli. Tullus
Aufidius, so Titus reported, had raised new troops, and in
the face of them the Romans had been the quicker in
offering terms of peace and coming away. In short, the
Volscians, though checked for a while, were still dangerous.
Their general, Aufidius, in wrath at their yielding Corioli
so cheaply, had retired to his own house in the neighbour
ing town of Antium. " I wish I had cause to seek him
there," muttered Coriolanus, little thinking that he would
indeed be seeking Aufidius very soon, but not as Consul of
Rome.

For while he came along the street discussing this news,
he found his way unexpectedly barred by the Tribunes
Brutus and Sicinius. " Pass no further," they commanded ;
" there will be mischief if this man goes to the market
place." "Why," cried the Senators, "is not Coriolanus
elected by nobles and commons both?" "No; for the
people are incensed against him. They cry out that they
have been mocked, and call to mind his late opposition when
corn was distributed to them free." " And so," Coriolanus
broke out, " on that account they take back their votes, and
I am not to be Consul ! I'd better deserve the worst of
them, then, and be made a vulgar Tribune like yourself!"
" Let me tell you," answered Sicinius, " that if you wish to
attain whither you're bound, you had better inquire your
way, which you're out of, more gently, or you'll never be
either Consul or Tribune." Menenius and Cominius here
interposed, imploring calm ; but Coriolanus broke out,

CORIOLANUS 28

" Talk to me of corn ! What I said then I'll repeat." It
was in vain that the Senators tried to check him. " No ; I
will say it. This shifty, foul-smelling rabble shall learn
that I do not flatter. I say again that in truckling to them
we are feeding a harvest of tares, of insolence, and sedition,
which we ourselves have ploughed for and sown in our
folly !" " No more, we beseech you !" his friends entreated.
But Coriolanus' anger had passed completely out of control.
He rated the Senators for their past lenity. " The rabble
had well deserved corn ! How ? By shirking to fight for
their country ? By mutinies and revolts during the cam
paign ? No ! they demanded it, and the Senate, terrorised
by their voting strength, gave way. ' Enough !' you say ?
Nay, take more — hear it all. When gentry, title, wisdom
cannot conclude without the ' yes ' or ' no ' of general
ignorance, then I say you must neglect the true necessity
of the state for unstable vanity. I bid you — those of you
who prefer a noble life to a long one — pluck out this multi
tude's tongue ! Cease to let it lick poison because it finds
poison sweet ! Put an end to this dishonour which takes
from your state the power to do good by submitting it to the
control of that which only knows, or can do, evil !"

"Enough !" cried the Tribunes. " He has spoken like a
traitor, and shall answer as a traitor ! This man a Consul ?
Never !" They shouted for their officers, the aediles, to
summon the people. Sicinius laid hands on Coriolanus to
arrest him. The Senators offered to be surety, but
Coriolanus flung him off. " Hence, old goat ! Hence,
rotten thing ! or I will shake your bones out of your
garments." " Help ! help !" shouted Sicinius, and the
sediles and rabble came running together to his rescue.
For a while, as they hustled about Coriolanus and tried to
lay hands on him, their cries and the counter-cries of the
Patricians deafened the air. At length Menenius appealed
to the Tribunes to speak to the people, and between them
they managed to get a hearing. But when they spoke it

24 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

was not to soothe the feeling against Coriolanus. "The
city of Rome is the people, and we are the people's
magistrates. We must stand to that authority or lose it,
and in the name of the people we pronounce Marcius worthy
of death, and command that he be carried hence and hurled
from the Tarpeian rock," — for this was the form of death
set apart for traitors by Roman custom. " ^Ediles, seize
him !" Coriolanus drew his sword. " No, no " — Menenius
would have prevented him, calling on the Tribunes, to
withdraw for a while. But it was too late, and a moment
after he was shouting to his fellow-nobles to help Coriolanus,
as the rabble made a rush crying, " Down with him ! down
with him !"

In the skirmish which followed the men of birth had the
upper hand, and beat Tribunes, aediles, and mob together
out of the street. " On fair ground I could whip forty such
curs," panted Coriolanus; but Cominius knew that their
advantage was a short one, and he and Menenius persuaded
Coriolanus to escape to his house before the crowd came
pouring back — as it presently did, demanding his instant
death without trial for resisting the law. It taxed all
Menenius' powers of persuasion to patch up a truce for the
moment, engaging that if the Tribunes would promise a
regular form of trial he would produce Coriolanus to submit
to it. To this the Tribunes, after some dispute, declared
themselves ready ; and dispersed their followers, command
ing them, however, to reassemble in the market-place where
the trial should be held.

It was no easy matter to persuade Coriolanus to attend.
At home he raged up and down, swearing the rabble should
pull his house about his ears and pile ten Tarpeian rocks
one on another, or tear him in pieces by wild horses before
he would submit. His friends could do nothing with him,
and it was Volumnia who at length persuaded him to go.
Coriolanus had always the deepest respect, as well as love,
for his mother. From her he had learnt that passion for

CORIOLANUS 25

honour which he followed with so headstrong a will, and
when she besought him to go and use fair speech, insisting
that this could not disgrace him, he sullenly consented.
''We'll prompt you," promised Cominius ; "remember
'mildly' is the word." And "mildly" echoed Menenius.
" Mildly be it then," grumbled Coriolanus, " mildly !"

In the market-place the people were awaiting him, well
drilled by Brutus and Sicinius to echo whatever cry the
Tribunes should raise. These two felt confident that they
had only to put Coriolanus in a passion and he would be in
their power. Coriolanus entered, his friends following close
and standing about him to hold him in check, and Sicinius
began to question him. "Do you submit to the people's
voice and acknowledge their officers ? and are content to
suffer such legal censure as may be pronounced on you?"
" I am content," was the answer. " There ! you see he is
content," put in the delighted Menenius : " he is a soldier,
remember ; you must not expect a soldier to be over-gentle
in his language." " Well, well, no more of that," commented
Cominius, who did not feel easy just yet. And in his very
next words Coriolanus began to take the offensive, demand
ing why, after being elected Consul, he was dishonoured by
having his election annulled. " It is your business here to
answer, not to ask questions," said Sicinius. Still Corio
lanus kept down his temper. " True, so it is." " We
charge you that you have deprived Rome of her con
stitutional government and taken to yourself tyrannical
power, for which you are a traitor to the people of Rome."
This was too much. The charge, a new and unexpected
one, had no justification. But it was the word "traitor"
which stuck in Coriolanus' throat. "'Traitor!'" — in a
moment he was past holding. " May the fires of lowest
hell wrap this people ! Call me their traitor ! If this lying
Tribune had twenty thousand deaths for me, I would call
him the liar that he is!" "To the rock! To the rock!"
bawled the multitude. Still his friends implored, but Corio-

26 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

lanus was now utterly deaf. " Be it the rock, or be it exile,
flaying, starvation, I would not buy their mercy with a single
word."

Exile was the sentence the Tribunes had determined on,
and in the name of the people Sicinius now pronounced it.
Perhaps they hardly dared to exact the last penalty of the
Tarpeian rock, but this they promised awaited Coriolanus if
he ever again set foot within the gates of Rome.

" Curs !" answered Coriolanus, " it is I who banish you !
Remain, and tremble at every rumour of war, shake when
ever you see the plumes of your invaders nodding. Banish
your defenders one by one, until your ignorance delivers you
captive without a blow. For your sakes I despise Rome,
and thus turn my back on her. There is a world elsewhere."
And so he turned and departed, while they flung up their
caps and shouted, " The people's enemy is gone !"

His wife, his mother, and a few friends escorted him to
the gate. " Do not weep ; a brief farewell is the best.
Nay, mother, remember your ancient courage." Volumnia
called curses upon the " many-headed beast " that treated
her son so ungratefully. Virgilia could only weep. Old
Cominius, that true friend, would have gone with him
for a while, but Coriolanus forbade it and went his way
alone.

\Yhither was Coriolanus bound ? He was, as we have
seen, a man with many great elements ; and yet not an
entirely great man, for selfishness infected them all. Even
his high worship of honour had its roots in selfishness. He
could say, and he believed, that he had fought and bled for
his country, but at heart he thought first of self. He, the
brave and noble Coriolanus, had been insulted, abused,
treated with shameful ingratitude. The wound to his self-
love poisoned all his thoughts. He forgot his boasted
affection for his country, forgot everything but his one
desire — to be revenged.

It was twilight in the Volscian town of Antium when a

CORIOLANUS 27

stranger, dressed in mean apparel and wearing a muffler
about his face, entered the gate and wandered along the
streets like a man uncertain of his way. Many people
passed, but no man knew him. Of one of these he asked
to be directed to the house of Tullus Aufidius.

Tullus Aufidius was dining and (as it chanced) entertain
ing the Senators of Antium, for the Volscians were even
now on the eve of launching a fresh invasion into Roman
territory under his guidance. The troops were mustered,
Aufidius had made his preparations, and the Senators had
gathered to-night to wish him good speed. From the
banqueting-room where they feasted the sound of music
poured through the doors into the outer hall, where the
serving-men ran to and fro with dishes or shouted for more
wine. Such was the scene upon which Coriolanus entered,
still in his disguise, and stood for a moment looking about
him. " A goodly house ! And the feast smells well ; but I
have scarcely the look of a guest." " Hullo, friend !" called
out one of the slaves, " what's your business, and where do
you come from ? Here's no place for you ; go to the door,
pray." "And whence are you, sir?" demanded another:
" has the porter no eyes, that he admits such fellows ?
Pray, get you out." " Away !" Coriolanus thrust him aside.
" Away ? It's for you to go away. I'll have you talked
with in a moment." " What fellow's this ?" inquired a
third. " A strange one as ever I saw. I cannot get him
out of the house. Prithee, call my master to him." " Let
me but stand here," said Coriolanus ; " I will not hurt your
hearth." But the fellow insisted that he must begone, and
so insolently that Coriolanus lost his temper and caught him
a sound buffet. In the midst of this hubbub Aufidius him
self entered, having been summoned to deal with the
intruder. "Where is this fellow?" he asked; and per
ceiving Coriolanus, " Your business, pray ? and your name ?
Be quick, if you please— your name, sir ?"

Coriolanus unwound the muffler from his face. "A name,

28 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Tullus, not musical in the Volscians' ears, and I believe
harsh to thine."

Still Aufidius did not recognise him, being unprepared
for this visitor, of all men. " Thou hast a face of com
mand, and seemest a noble ship, though thy tackle is torn.
But I know thee not."

"I am Caius Marcius, once thy foe in particular, and foe
of all the Volscians, as my surname Coriolanus may wit
ness. That name is all my thankless country requites me
with. The cruelty and envy of the rabble, by leave of the
dastard nobles who forsook me, have swallowed all the rest
and hounded me out of Rome. Therefore I am come to your
hearth — not in hope to save my life — but in spite, to be
revenged on my banishers. If thou, too, desirest revenge
on Rome, make my misery serve thy turn ; use me, and I
will fight against my country with the spleen of all the
devils below. If thou dare not, if it weary thee to try thy
fortune afresh, then I am weary, weary to live, and offer my
life here to thee and our old grudge."

While he spoke Aufidius had drawn back in amazement.
But he was a man of generous impulse, and in a moment
he fought down his present incredulity and his old malice
together :

" O Marcius, Marcius ! Each word of thine plucks up a
root of our ancient envy !" He embraced the foe whose
body he had so often and vainly assailed with sword and
lance. " Not when my wedded wife first crossed my thres
hold did my heart dance as it dances now to see thee here,
thou noble thing ! Why, thou Mars ! I tell thee we have a
power on foot now, at this moment ; and once more I was
purposing to hew thy shield from thine arm or lose my own
arm in the endeavour. Time upon time thou hast beaten
me, and night after night I have dreamed of new encoun
ters — in my sleep we have been down together, tearing
loose our helms, fisting each other's throat— and so waked
half-dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius! Had we no

CORIOLANUS 29

other quarrel with Rome than her banishing thee, we would
muster all from youngest to oldest to avenge thee. Come,
come in ; take our friendly Senators by the hand — they are
here to wish me good speed. Take the half of my com
mand, and direct thine own revenge. Thou shouldst know
best when and how to strike Rome. Come in, I say. They
shall say yes to all thy desires. Welcome a thousand
times ! more a friend than ever an enemy — and yet that
was much, Marcius ! Your hand, come !"

They passed together into the banqueting-room, and
soon the disconcerted slaves had plenty to gossip about
as they saw the strange visitor seated at the upper table
and feasted, questioned, and consulted amid the deferential
awe of the Senators. Aufidius was as good as his word,
and readily gave up to Coriolanus the half of his com
mission. With his undreamt-of ally there was no division
and no hesitation in the counsels of Antium. It was war
now, and war without delay.

In Rome the Tribunes were* congratulating themselves.
Their enemy was gone, and they had heard no more of him.
It was pleasant to see the tradesmen singing in their shops,
or going amicably about their business instead of running
about the streets in tumult as in the days when they had
Caius Marcius to provoke them. The Tribunes took great
credit for this and for having rid Rome of one who aimed at
kingship. They could repeat this false accusation safely ;
and Menenius and his fellow Senators, while they shook
their heads, took care to treat the Tribunes with considera
tion. As for Coriolanus, even his mother and wife heard
nothing from him.

The first warning of something amiss came from a slave,
who reported that the Volscians were astir again and had
crossed the Roman frontiers with two separate armies. He
carried this news to the aediles, and was by those wise
acres promptly clapped into prison for a liar. " Have him

30 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

whipped," commanded Brutus. Menenius suggested that it
might be as well to make a few inquiries before whipping him.

And while Brutus and Sicinius protested that the tale
could not be true — it was not possible — there arrived a
messenger with word that the nobles had received news,
and were crowding to the Senate House. The slave's
report had been confirmed by a second. Marcius had
joined with Aufidius, and was marching on Rome to
revenge himself.

" A likely story !" sneered Sicinius. " Ay," added Brutus,
" and raised no doubt to make the weaker spirits wish him
home again." But this messenger was followed by another,
and he again by Cominius in a towering rage. " You've
made good work !" he broke out, addressing the Tribunes.
" What news ? What news ?" asked Menenius eagerly ; and
being told it, he, too, rounded on the Tribunes. " You've
made good work, you and your apron-men ! Oh, you've
made fine work !" " But is this true, sir ?" Brutus stam
mered. " True ? You'll look pale enough before you find
it anything else. He will shake Rome about your ears ?
Who can blame him ? And who can beg his mercy ?
Not you Tribunes — you who deserve such pity as a wolf
deserves of the shepherd. Yes, indeed, you've made good
work of it ! You've brought Rome to a pretty pass !" " Say
not we brought it." "Who, then?" snapped Menenius:
"was it we? We loved him ; but, cowards that we were,
we gave way and allowed your crew of danglers to hoot
him out of the city. Here they come, your danglers !" as
the crowd poured around them discussing the news. " Well,
sirs, how do you like your handiwork ?" The crowd was
scared, but clamorous after its wont, each man noisily
anxious to shift the blame off his own shoulders. " For my
part, when I voted to banish him I said 'twas a pity." " I
always said we were in the wrong." " So did we all." " You
are goodly things, you voters," said Cominius, with bitter
contempt.

CORIOLANUS 31

The peril was urgent. Town after town yielded before
Coriolanus without a blow, and Rome, divided within her
gates, lay apparently at his mercy. In name he shared the
command with Aundius, but in fact Coriolanus was the
sole hero of the campaign. The Volscian soldiery swore
by their new leader, and his popularity began to teach
Aundius that the roots of ancient envy are not so easily
plucked up after all. Aundius was a generous man, up to
a point ; he had proved it by a highly generous action.
But to obey a generous impulse is easier than to keep
a magnanimous temper constant in face of a rival's success.
Something of the old jealousy awoke in the Volscian leader ;
he saw, or thought he saw, that Coriolanus behaved more
haughtily towards him than at first ; his near friends and
lieutenants encouraged the suspicion ; he began to repent
that he had given up half his command. Too big a man
to deny his rival's merit, he was little enough to be galled
by it, and to spy out faults which might some day serve
for an accusation. " Coriolanus has merit ; yet something
brought him to grief once in spite of it. He has merit
enough to silence criticism ; yet he fell. Our virtues are
as men choose to interpret them ; a man may have power
and be conscious of his own deserts, yet he will not find in
an epitaph what he lacked in the praise of the living. Fire
drives out fire, one nail another, and one man's reputation
another's. When Rome has fallen, and Caius Marcius
thinks himself strongest, my time shall come."

In Rome there was absolute dismay, and no attempt even
to disguise it. Panic-stricken women ran wailing about the
streets ; the temples were filled with old folks weeping
bitterly and entreating the gods ; nor could a man be found
wise or strong enough to provide for the city's defence.
At the suit of the Tribunes (humble enough by this time)
Cominius had been persuaded to visit the Volscian camp
and supplicate Coriolanus in person. Coriolanus would not
listen to his old commander; but as he knelt and pleaded

32 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

their old acquaintance and blood shed together for Rome's
sake, bade him rise, and with no more words, but a wave
of the hand only, dismissed him back to the city. Where
Cominius had failed would Menenius succeed ? It was not
likely ; yet Menenius had strong claims on Coriolanus' love,
and at length suffered himself to be persuaded. Cominius
has perhaps chosen an unhappy moment. Menenius, a firm
believer in the influence of the stomach over men's actions,
would choose a propitious one, after dinner. The mission
flattered his sense of importance ; he might be able to show
these huckstering Tribunes something, these fellows who
were likely to cheapen coals by getting Rome burnt to the
ground. After all he did not despair.

So he, too, set out for the Volscian camp. But his
reception there was scarcely encouraging. The sentries
at first would not let him pass, and seemed as little im
pressed by his name as by his recital of friendly services
done for Coriolanus in the past. "You are mistaken," they
assured him, " if you think to blow out the fire preparing
for Rome with such weak breath as this." While they
wrangled, Coriolanus himself came by in talk with Aufidius.
" Now, you fellow," Menenius promised, " you shall see in
what estimation I am held, and if a Jack-in-office can keep
me from my son Coriolanus without hanging for it or
worse"; and approaching Coriolanus, "The glorious gods
sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love
thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does ! O my
son, my son ! I was hardly moved to come to thee ; but
being assured that none but myself could move thee, I have
been blown out of our gates with sighs, and conjure thee to
pardon Rome and thy petitioning countrymen. The good
gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this
varlet here — this blockhead, who hath denied my access to
thee !" " Away !" answered Coriolanus. " Eh ? How ?
Away ?" stammered Menenius. " Away ! I know not
wife, mother, or child ; I am servant to the Volscians now.

CORIOLANUS 38

My ears are closed against your petitions more firmly than
your gates against me. Not another word !" He turned
to Aufidius. " This man was my dear friend in Rome, yet
thou see'st." " You keep a constant temper," said Aufidius.
The two generals turned away and left Menenius standing
red and discomfited before the jeers of the sentinels. "As
for you, I take no account of such fellows. I say to you as
I was said to, Away !" and away he stalked, followed by
their laughter.

There was yet one plea left for Rome. While Coriolanus
sat within his tent, grieved to have sent this old friend home
(as he said) with a cracked heart, and resolute to listen to
no more embassies, a stir arose without in the camp. No
man had the cruelty to disturb or forbid this new proces
sion. At the head of it in deepest mourning walked Virgilia,
and behind her Volumnia leading Coriolanus' little son
Marcius by the hand, and behind them again a train of
Roman ladies, all in sorrowful black. They entered the
tent and knelt before him, while Coriolanus rose, divided
between his heart's instinct and his resolution to deny it.

" My lord and husband !" murmured Virgilia, and ceased.

" These eyes " — Coriolanus tried to recover his firmness —
"are not the same I wore in Rome."

" Sorrow — the sorrow that has changed us — makes you
think so."

He could hold back his love no longer. " Best of my
flesh, forgive me; but do not say, 'Forgive our Romans.'
One kiss — a kiss *as long as my exile, as sweet as my
revenge!" He turned to his mother and knelt to salute
her.

But Volumnia bade him rise, and, in spite of his protesta
tion, sank herself upon her knees, and the child Marcius
beside her. "Thou art my warrior; I helped to frame thee;
this is thy son, and thyself in little." "The God of soldiers,"
said Coriolanus, " make him a noble soldier, proof against
shame, and give him to stand in war like a great sea-mark,

34 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

steadfast, the salvation of men who look upon him!" "And
it is we who plead with you," said Volumnia.

" Nay, I beseech. Or, if you will plead, bid me not
dismiss my soldiers or capitulate a second time with Rome's
mechanics ; plead not against ^my revenge, for to that I have
sworn."

" You deny beforehand all we ask, yet we will and must
ask." "Then all the Volscians shall hear it," said Corio-
lanus, and he called them to stand around.

"My son," said Volumnia, "should we hold our peace,
yet the sight of us and our raiment would bewray what
manner of life we have led since thy exile. Think how far
more unfortunate than all living women are we, since the
sight of thee, which should make our eyes flow with joy,
our hearts dance with comfort, constrains them to weep and
shake with sorrow and terror, making us, thy wife, thy
mother, thy child, to see thee besieging the walls of his
native country. Ah, it is worst for us ; for others may pray
to the gods, but we cannot. How can we pray for our
country and for thy victory — both so dear to us — when one
must destroy the other ? when, whichever wins, a curse is
bound up in the prayer ? Either my son must be led, a
foreign recreant, in manacles through our streets, or march
in triumph through them, trampling on his country's ruin.
But, for me, I will not see that day. If I cannot persuade
thee, thou shalt march to assault thy country over thy
mother's body that brought thee into the world."

" Ay," echoed Virgilia, " and over mine that brought thy
son into the world to keep thy name alive."

Coriolanus groaned. " I do wrong to look on women's
faces; they turn a man to womanish tenderness." He
turned to leave them.

" Nay," commanded Volumnia, " go not thus from us.
Did we implore thee to save the Romans by destroying
the Volscians, thou mightst condemn us as aiming against
thine honour. But we plead only to reconcile them, so that

86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the Volscians may say, ' This mercy we have shown ' ; and
the Romans, ' This mercy we have received,' and both unite
in blessing thee as the maker of this peace. Son, the end
of war is uncertain ; but this is certain, that if thou conquer
Rome it will be to reap a name which shall be dogged with
curses, and its chronicle thus written, ' The man was noble,
but with his last attempt he wiped out the remembrance
of it and destroyed his country, and his name remains
abhorred.' "

Yet Coriolanus sat silent. He could not trust himself to
speak.

" Answer me, my son. Dost thou think it honourable for
a noble man to remember the wrongs and injuries done him.
Daughter, speak to him. He cares not for your weeping.
Speak to him, boy ; thy childishness may move him more
than our reasoning. Son, no son in the world owes his
mother more than thou owest ; never in thy life hast thou
shown thy mother any courtesy ; not when she, poor soul,
fond of no other child, doted on thee going to the wars,
doted on thee returning laden with honour. Is my plea
unjust? Spurn it, then. But if it be just, as thou fearest
heaven, deny not thy mother her due."

A last time he would have turned away, but she and
Virgilia and the child flung themselves on their knees
together, uplifting their hands.

And seeing this, Coriolanus was mastered. He stepped
to his mother, and lifting her, held her by the hand for a

moment, silent. Then with a cry speech broke from him

" O mother, mother, what have you done to me !" Still he
held her hand, fighting for words. " O mother, you have
won a happy victory for your country, but— though you
know it not— mortal and unhappy for your son !" He
turned to Aufidius. " Sir, though I cannot make this war
as I promised, I can and will make a peace to suit you.
Say," he added, almost wistfully, since he had come to trust
Aufidius, " could you in my place have listened to a mother

CORIOLANUS 37

less? or have granted less?" "I was moved myself,"
owned Aufidius, but this was all he would say. " I dare
be sworn you were. But advise me, my friend, touching
what peace you will make. I remain here, and I pray you
stand by me in this matter." He would fain have gone to
Rome with them whose dearness to him he had just so
dearly proved ; but his honour held him among the
Volscians. " By and by," he promised ; and dismissed
them back on their happy errand. " You deserve to have
a temple built to you ; all the swords in Italy could not
have made this peace."

Meanwhile in Rome the citizens swayed between hope
and despair. Watchers lined the walls, their eyes bent on
the Volscian camp. Within the city the mob had seized
upon Brutus, and haled him up and down, promising him a
lingering death if the petitioners brought back no comfort.

At length a cry went up from the walls, a shout The
Volscian camp was moving, retiring. Messengers came
running, one after another, with the tidings ; and soon, like
the blown tide through an archway, the glad throng poured
in through the gates. Trumpets sounded, drums, all instru
ments of music half-drowned in a tumult of cheering. And
when at length Volumnia and her ladies appeared, escorted
by the Senators, the crowd pressed about them rapturously,
strewing flowers and shouting, " Welcome ! welcome !"
Some lit triumphal fires ; others ran and flung open the
gates of all the temples, which soon were filled with men
crowned with garlands and doing sacrifice as though news
had come of a great victory.

Coriolanus was not to share this joy. He had spoken
truth when he told his mother that she had won a victory
most mortal for him. He turned his back upon the rejoicing
city, and went, as his honour summoned him, friendless back
to his fate. For as he led the Volscian troops homeward,
Aufidius hurried before him, and before he reached Antium
with drum and colours, Aufidius had made ready to receive

38 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

him. " He has betrayed us. For a few women's tears he
has bartered all the blood and labour of our great actions " ;
such was the charge forwarded by Aufidius in letters to the
Senators. So when Coriolanus halted in the market-place,
and delivered up the terms of peace, Aufidius stepped for
ward. " Read it not, noble lords ! But tell this man he is
a traitor !"

" Traitor !" Coriolanus turned on him fierce and amazed.
" Ay, traitor," Aufidius repeated doggedly, " traitor and
coward." " My lords," Coriolanus faced the Senators,
" you shall judge me, and your judgment shall give this
cur the lie, as he — he who shall carry the marks of my past
whippings to his grave — already knows himself to be a liar."
The Senators would have interposed, but the crowd had
been instructed beforehand. Many had cause to hate
Coriolanus for sons, fathers, kinsmen lost to them in fight
ing Rome. They pressed about him, crying, "Kill! kill!"
— and pierced with stroke upon stroke of their daggers,
Coriolanus fell.

They had killed him believing him their enemy; but,
their rage spent, they knew that they had slain a great
man. Lifting the body, they bore it with military honours
through the streets of Antium, and buried it as became its
rank and its great deeds.

JULIUS C.&SAR

FOUR hundred and fifty years had passed and the Rome of
Coriolanus had become the mistress of the world. But all
these years had not healed the quarrel between the patricians
and plebeians ; for as the city increased in size and dignity
and empire, so her citizens increased in numbers and grew
less and less inclined to submit to the rule of a few noble
and privileged families. And these civil quarrels became
more bloody and dangerous as Rome lost that fear of the
foreigner which had once bound her citizens together in
self-defence.

To hold and garrison her vast possessions, too, she needed
soldiers, and drew them from far and wide to fight under
her eagles. And in times of peace these soldiers, being out
of employment, were only too apt to meddle with civil
affairs ; until at length it became clear that whoever wanted
the upper hand must get the support of the army. The
man who perceived this most clearly was himself a soldier
and one of the greatest generals the world has ever known
—Julius Caesar ; and his hope was, by making himself
master of the army, to rule alone and supreme and by
strong and steady government to put an end to the miser
able dissensions from which the state suffered.

To this he attained after a long struggle with his great
rival Pompey. When it was over and the sons of Pompey,
after their father's death, had been crushed in the battle of
Munda, Caesar treated the vanquished party with great
leniency, no doubt because he wanted as few enemies as
possible in the work of steady government to which, as

39

40 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

master of the whole Roman world, he was now to turn
his mind.

But he had made more enemies than he bargained for,
and some quite unsuspected ones. To begin with, the
beaten Pompeians were not men of the sort to understand
his generosity or to be grateful for it. Then some of his
own followers were angry because their rewards had fallen
short of what they believed themselves entitled to ; and also
because Caesar, though he had given them high appoint
ments, went his own way, as strong men will, without con
sulting them. There were others again— noble spirits —
who loved him and yet believed that so much power in the
hands of one man was a danger to that Liberty on which
the Romans had always prided themselves. As for the
mob, they cheered for the man who was up, after the manner
of mobs. A few months ago they had climbed the walls and
house-tops and shouted themselves hoarse for Pompey.
Now that Pompey was dead, and Caesar returned in triumph
from his victory over Pompey's sons, they shouted with
equal enthusiasm for Caesar.

And Ciusar, in the glow of his triumph, had parted with
some of his old wisdom. Men of his great achievements
become what we call " men of destiny " ; and just as their
enemies fail to see that success so mighty must contain
something fatal, and cannot wholly depend on one man's
cleverness or good luck, so they themselves are apt to forget
that they are but the instruments of Heaven, and to take all
the credit and become vain and puffed up. Thus the
moment of Caesar's triumph was the moment of his most
dangerous weakness : for fancying himself almost a god, he
began to talk and act in a way which persuaded his enemies
that he was no more than a man with an ordinary man's
frailties. Both were mistaken, and Destiny as usual turned
the mistakes of both to her own sure purposes.

As usual, too, she gave warning ; and at first in that
small and seemingly casual voice which men disregard at

JULIUS C/ESAR 41

the time and remember afterwards. There was an annual
festival at Rome called the Lupercalia, held on the i5th of
February, at the foot of the Aventine Hill, where Romulus
and Remus, the founders of the city, had been discovered
as infants with a she-wolf for their nurse. No doubt in the
beginning it had been a rude shepherd's festival ; but the
Romans, proud to be reminded of their city's small
beginnings, had appointed a company of priests who yearly
on this date made a sacrifice of goats in honour of the old
mother-wolf, and afterwards cut their skins into thongs.
And the custom was for many noble youths to strip naked
and run with these thongs, with which they playfully struck
the bystanders. One of the runners this year was Mark
Antony, a young man of pleasure, but of ambition too
and excellent parts, when his love of pleasure allowed
him to use them, and an especial friend of Caesar's. Caesar
himself attended in state with his train of followers and
flatterers, among whom one Casca was foremost calling
" Silence !" to the crowd whenever the great man so much
as opened his mouth.

The great man just now was talking familiarly with
Antony, who stood ready stripped for the course, when a
shrill voice from the throng cried " Caesar !" " Ha ! who
calls ?" asked Caesar, turning about, and the officious Casca
ordered silence again. " Beware the ides of March !"* — It
was a soothsayer who gave this warning, and repeated
it when Casca called him forward ; but Caesar lightly
dismissed him as a " dreamer," and passed on to see the
show.

The crowd followed at his heels, and left two men stand
ing — noble Romans both of them. Their names were

* The Romans marked off their months by three points : the Kalends
or ist day, and the Nones and Ides, which were the 7th and i5th of
March, May, July, October, and the 5th and i3th of other months.
They began by reckoning the number of days before the Nones, then
the Ides, then the Kalends of next month. The Ides of March were
he i 3th.

H i FROM SHAKESPEARE

Marcus Brutus and Caius Cassius, and a close friendship,
united them in spite of their very different natures. No
citi/en of Rome was more upright than Brutus, more single-
minded, more unselfishly patriotic. A philosopher and a
man of books rather than of action, he was in some ways as
. imp),. as H . lnl.1 ; and U-in;; pc.rl'f,' ily hour:- t liini'.'-lf,
doubted not that every one else must be honest. Privately
he liked Caesar and was respected by Caesar ; but he believed
from the bottom of his heart that all this power in the hands
of one man was a monstrous treason to the old Roman idea
of liberty, and a danger to the commonwealth, and he
watched it with a growing sadness and indignation.

Cassius, too, was indignant ; but for reasons less lofty
than those which moved Brutus. He felt the wrong done
to the state ; but being of a splenetic and angry temper, he
disliked and was jealous of Cajsar. And Caesar paid back
this feeling with suspicion. " That Cassius," he said once
to Antony, " has a lean and hungry look. lie thinks too
much, and such men are dangerous." " Fear him not,
Caesar," replied Antony, " he is a noble Roman and well
disposed." " I would he were fatter," Causar. persisted, 'who
liked to have sleek and contented men about him : "If I,
Causar, were liable to fear, I do not know whom I should
avoid so soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, is a
great observer ; he loves no plays as thou dost, Antony ;
hears no music ; smiles seldom ; and then as if he scorned
himself for smiling. Men such as he are never easy of
heart while they behold a greater than themselves; and
therefore they are very dangerous." And Ca.-sar was right,
though he fancied himself too great to fear tbit danger which
he pointed out.

" Will you go see the runners ?" asked Cassius, as he and
Brutus were left alone.

" Not I," said Brutus, " I am not inclined for sport, and
lack Antony's lively spirits. But do not let me hinder you,
Cassius."

JULIUS C/ESAR 43

" Brutus, how comes it that your manner to me has
changed of late ? I miss the old gentleness and show of
love, and observe that you bear yourself stiffly towards the
friend who loves you."

" Pardon me, Cassius. I am troubled in mind, at war
with myself ; and it is this which makes me seem negligent
in my behaviour to my good friends."

" Then," said Cassius, " I have mistaken you, and my
mistake has made me keep buried in my breast some
thoughts of mine well worth imparting. Tell me, Brutus,"
he asked abruptly, " can you see your face ? . . . I wish
you could ; and I have heard of men of the best respect in
Rome — except immortal Caesar," he put in with a sneer ;
" men groaning under this present yoke — declare how they
wished Brutus would but use his eyes."

" Cassius, into what dangers would you lead me ?"

" Well, my friend, let me be your glass ; and look on me
that you may discover more of yourself than you yet know."
And he was beginning to protest what Brutus well knew,
that he was no common flatterer or loose talker in company,
when the noise of distant shouting interrupted him.

" What means this shouting ?" said Brutus ; " I fear the
people are acclaiming Caesar for their king."

" Ay, do you fear that ? Then I must think you would
not have it so."

" No, Cassius, though I love him well. But what is it
you would impart to me ? If it be aught toward the public
good, you know that I prize what is honourable more than
I fear death."

Thus encouraged, Cassius unfolded his tale of grievance.
" Is it honour that we should all stand in awe of this one
Caesar, a man like ourselves ? You and I wrere born free as
Caesar. Is he in any way more of a man ? He is a great
swimmer ; yet I have swum the roaring Tiber with him,
and he has called to me to save him from drowning. I
have seen him in Spain, sick of a fever — this god of

44 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

ours— shaking and pallid, and calling for drink like a sick

girl."

" Hark !" said Brutus, " they are shouting again,
believe this applause must be for some new honours heaped
on him."

" Why, man, he bestrides this narrow world like a
Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and
peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men
at one time or another are masters of their own fate, and if
we are underlings, we, and not our stars, not our destinies,
are to blame. Brutus and Caesar! Why Caesar more
than Brutus ? Is Rome so degenerate that in this last age
it holds but one man, and makes him king ? There was a
Brutus once who would have brooked the devil himself in
Rome as easily as a king." He spoke of that Lucius Junius
Brutus, his friend's ancestor, who had in old times expelled
the Tarquins. Cassius was indeed no common flatterer,
but knew exactly how to touch his friend's pride. Brutus
was moved. He confessed that he guessed Cassius' mean
ing ; he would think of what had been said ; would talk of
it further at some other time. Meanwhile let Cassius
sustain himself with this — " Brutus had rather be a villager
than repute himself a son of Rome under such conditions as
he foresees will be laid upon Romans."

The re-entry of Caesar and his train broke off their talk.
Something had clearly happened at the games to annoy the
great man, for his face wore an angry spot, and his wife
Calpurnia was pale, while the great orator Cicero had the
look he put on when crossed in debate. As they went by
Cassius plucked Casca by the sleeve and delayed him to
know what the matter was. " Oh," said Casca, " there was
a crown offered to Caesar, or a kind of crown. It was mere
foolery, and I did not mark it. Antony offered it, and
Caesar refused it thrice, and then he fell down in a fit."
Casca had a bluff hearty manner with him, but he was
really a sly unstable man who took his cue from his

JULIUS C/ESAR 45

company. " A fit ?" said Brutus: "that is likely enough,
he suffers from the falling-sickness."* " Nay," interposed
Cassius, with meaning, " it is not Caesar, but you and I and
honest Casca here that suffer from the falling-sickness."
Casca scented the hint at once, and still keeping his jolly-
good-fellow-well-met way of speaking, let fall another in
answer. " The tag-rag people," said he, " clapped and
hissed Caesar, just as if he were playing a part ; and what's
more, he gave them excuse enough, for just before he fell
down he plucked open his doublet and offered me his throat
to cut ! If I had only been a practical fellow instead of the
easy-going one you see, . swear I'd have taken him at his
word." " And when all was over," said Brutus, " Caesar
came away sad, as we saw him ?" " Ay." " Did Cicero
say anything ?" asked Cassius (for Cicero might or might
not join the plot, and it was worth while to find out how he
behaved). " Ay, he spoke Greek." " To what effect ?"
" Nay," said Casca, with a shrug of the shoulders, " you
mustn't ask me that. I'm a plain fellow, and it was Greek
to me at any rate. There was more foolery besides, if I
could remember it." " Will you dine with me to-morrow,
Casca?" asked Cassius, for he saw cunning where Brutus
saw bluntness only. Casca promised, and so they parted.

And during the next month Cassius was busy. He
feared, on second thoughts, to trust Cicero ; but he sounded
others of his acquaintance — Trebonius, Ligarius, Cinna,
Decimus Brutus, Metellus Cimber — who were ready to join
the plot. Their main hope, however, rested on Marcus
Brutus ; for whatever their own several motives might be,
they knew none but the highest would persuade him to lift
a hand against Caesar, and that the people would give him
credit for this. Cassius, to influence his friend, had letters
and scrolls carefully prepared in different handwritings, all
hinting at Caesar's ambition, and that Rome looked to
Brutus for deliverance. Some of them would be thrown
* A name given to the epilepsy.

46 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

in at Brutus' window, others laid among the petitions in his
praetor's chair, others again pinned to the statue of his great
ancestor. Every day brought a fresh shower of these
letters, which Brutus believed to come honestly from the
people and express their wishes.

Indeed, as often happens when treason or conspiracy is in
the air, the public mind began to be disquieted with vague
rumours and whisperings. Whence they came, or what
they meant precisely, none knew. But folk began to talk
of omens, signs of heaven, mysterious fires and meteors. A
lion had been found wandering loose in the streets ; an owl
had settled at noonday above the great market-place; a
slave's hand had burst into flame, but when he had cast the
flames from him the hand was found to be unhurt— such
were the foolish tales spread and discussed. Certainly the
heavens were unsettled and broke on the night before the
Ides into a furious thunderstorm.

Cassius passing through the drenched streets, reckless of
the lightning, to join his fellow-conspirators, ran against
Casca, whom the storm and its horrors had completely
terrified. He had left Casca to the last, knowing him to
be easily pliable. But now the time was short. To-night
the plotters were to come together and hear Brutus' final
answer. It took Cassius but a few minutes to convince the
shaking man that the portents at which he trembled were
really directed against Caesar, to whom in the morning, if
report said true, the senators meant to offer the crown ;
and but a few minutes more to persuade him that he really
was a bondman and owed Caesar a grudge. " I am ready,"
he protested, " to dare as much as Cassius in putting
down the tyrant. I am no tell-tale." Cassius had his own
opinion about this ; but now that the time for tale-bearing
was past, disclosed the plot to him and bade him follow to
the porch of Pompey's Theatre, where the conspirators
were assembling to pay their visit together to Brutus'
house.

JULIUS C^SAR 47

Brutus meanwhile had been passing through a terrible
time. The more he pondered the more clearly he seemed
to see that Caesar's life was a daily-growing menace to the
welfare and liberties of Rome. " It must be by his death,"
he heard an inner voice whispering. Another voice would
whisper that privately he could find no quarrel with Caesar.
And then a third would answer that Caesar's tyranny must
increase with his opportunities. "It is the bright day that
brings forth the adder, and therefore," it said, "kill this
serpent in the egg."

These were the thoughts which for days had kept him
distracted. They allowed him no sleep to-night, but drove
him from his bed long before daybreak. He wakened his
young slave Lucius, and bidding him set a taper in the
study, walked out into his orchard when the storm had
spent itself and left the heavens clear enough for the eye
to mark the meteors shooting above the dark trees.

But out here the same miserable doubts dogged and
besieged him. The boy brought word that his taper was
lit, and handed him a sealed paper which he had found by
the window in searching for a flint. " Go back to bed,"
said his master, "it is not day yet. By the way, is not
to-morrow the Ides of March?" "I know not, sir."
" Go then first and look in the calendar, and bring me
word."

He broke the seal of the paper, and read a sentence or
two by the light of the trailing stars. It was another of
the mysterious letters. " Brutus, thou sleepest. Awake
and see thyself" — the very words might have told him who
the author was. Another call to him in the name of his
great ancestors to come to the rescue of Rome !

The boy, coming back to report the date, was interrupted
by a knocking without. It was Cassius, with the rest of
the conspirators, heavily cloaked and wrapped. By his
master's order Lucius admitted them to the dark garden.
Cassius made them known— Trebonius, Decimus Brutus,

48 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Casca, Cinna, Metellus Cimber ; and then drew Brutus
aside while the rest fell into constrained trivial talk which
barely hid their uneasiness.

But Brutus' mind was made up. After some whispering
with Cassius he came forward. " Give me your hands—
no oath is necessary. We are Romans, and a promise is
enough." He laid great stress on this; to him it meant
everything to read in their purpose the genuine old Roman
spirit. Cassius recalled him to more practical matters.
"What of Cicero? Shall we sound him?" "We must
not leave him out," said Casca, and Cinna and Metellus
agreed. Brutus urged that Cicero was not a man to follow
what others began. " Better leave him out, then," said
Cassius, who mistrusted Cicero on other grounds. " No,
indeed, he won't do," chimed in Casca, ready as usual to
contradict himself and echo the last speaker.

Decimus Brutus wished to know if Caesar alone should
be sacrificed. "Well urged," said Cassius; ('if we allow
Mark Antony to live, he is just the man to do us mischief.
Antony must fall too."

But this counsel revolted Brutus. " We are sacrificers
and not butchers," he dwelt again on the sober justice of
their purpose— as it appeared to him. He abhorred blood
shed, and pleaded for no more than was necessary.

"Yet I fear him," urged the more far-sighted Cassius,
" for the love he .bears to Caesar."

" Do not think of him," Brutus answered impatiently.
He underrated Antony, and Cassius felt sure he was wrong,
but gave way.

It was three in the morning and high time to disperse.
There remained a doubt whether Caesar, who had grown
suspicious of late, would not be deterred by recent omens
from going to the Capitol. Decimus Brutus engaged to
override any such hesitation and bring him. They left
promising to send another likely conspirator— Caius Ligarius
—whom Brutus was to persuade ; and with yet another

JULIUS C^SAR 49

reminder of the Roman part they were to play, he saw them
through the gate.

As he turned and bent over the boy Lucius, who, having
no plots or cares on his mind, had fallen into a sound sleep,
Brutus' wife, Portia, came out from the house.

She was uneasy about her husband. He had been strange
in his manner for many days. Men, she knew, had their
dark hours, and she had waited and watched. But this
trouble, it seemed, would not let him eat, or talk, or sleep.
It had changed him so that only in feature was he the Brutus
she knew. " Dear my lord, tell me the cause of your grief!"

" I am not well in health ; that is all."

" Is it for your health, then, that you are here abroad on
this cold raw morning ? No, you have some sickness of the
mind rather, which as your wife I have a right to share.
See, I beg you on my knees, by the beauty you once com
mended and the great vow you swore to me — your other
half — that you tell me the truth. What men were here
just now — men who kept their faces hidden ?"

Then, as Brutus hesitated, she reminded him that though
a woman only she was Brutus' wife and Cato's daughter.
" Listen," she said, "before asking to share your secret I
determined to test myself, to prove if I were worthy of it.
See, I took a knife and gashed myself here, in the thigh.
The wound is very painful, but I have kept my lips tight,
and not allowed the pain to overcome me. Now say if I
cannot be trusted to keep my lips closed on your secret !"

Brutus, touched and amazed by his wife's heroism, took
her in his arms, and would have told her the whole story
then and there, but a knocking interrupted him, and with a
hurried promise that she should know all, he dismissed her
into the house just as the boy admitted the last of the con
spirators, Caius Ligarius.

Nor was Portia the only wife who had slept ill on that
ominous night. Caesar's wife, Calpurnia, had been tormented

4

50 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

• with horrible dreams ; dreams in which she had seen her
husband's statue spouting blood from a hundred wounds,
while a crowd of Romans came and bathed their hands in
it ; dreams so ghastly that thrice in her sleep she had started
up crying for help— that Caesar was being murdered.

To unnerve her further, close upon these dreams had
come early reports of the night's portents, the horrid sights
seen by the watch. A lioness had whelped in the streets ;
the very graves had been shaken ; the men swore to hearing
noises of battle, the neighing of horses, the groans of dying
men, the squealing of ghosts among the voices of the storm,
and that the clouds had actually drizzled blood on the
Capitol. Calpurnia had not Portia's firmness of mind.
She gave herself up to terror, and protested that Caesar
should not stir from the house that day.

Her fears even infected Caesar, though he would not own
it to himself. He gave orders that the priests should do
sacrifice and report what omens the victim yielded. Then
he turned to Calpurnia. " What the gods purpose men
cannot avoid. These portents are meant for all men, not
specially for Caesar. But suppose them meant for me —
well, cowards die many times before their death, but a brave
man tastes of death once, and once only. It seems to me
the strangest of all wonders that men should be fearful,
seeing that a man must die and the end must come in its
due time."

His servant returned with word that the augurs warned
Caesar against stirring abroad that day. On plucking forth
the entrails of the victim they discovered yet another portent
— the heart was missing. Caesar would have made light of
it. " 'Tis the gods' reproof of cowardice," he said; "I,
too, should lack a heart were I to stay at home for fear."
But Calpurnia besought him to stay and send word by
Mark Antony that he was not well ; and Caesar, divided
between a belief that he was above danger and a sense of
menace in the air, was promising to humour her, when

JULIUS C^SAR 51

Decimus Brutus arrived to accompany him to the Senate-
house.

" Tell them," said Caesar, " that I will not come. It were
false to say I cannot, and false to say that I dare not. So
say that I will not."

Decimus asked for his reasons ; and being told of Cal-
purnia's fears, so well enacted his promised part of flatterer,
with hints of what the Senate might say or suspect, that
Caesar soon felt ashamed to have yielded to his wife's fears.
" Give me my robe," said he, " I will go." And an escort
of his supposed friends (for the conspirators were among
them) arriving at that moment settled the matter. " Come,
Antony, Cinna, Metellus ! — what, Trebonius ? You are the
man I want to talk with. Keep near me that I may re
member." " I will," muttered Trebonius darkly.

Caesar was to have yet another warning. One Artemido-
rus, a teacher of rhetoric, had an inkling of the plot, and
had posted himself in the crowd before the Capitol with a
letter. The citizens cheered as the great man passed
through the streets, while Brutus' wife, Portia, waited out
side her door, straining her ears at every sound borne across
the city from the direction of the Senate-house. She bade
Lucius run thither, and broke off, forgetting she had given
the boy no message to take. She read meanings into the
talk of the passers-by. She breathed a prayer for Brutus,
and then was terrified to think the boy had overheard it.
" Run," said she, "any message ! Tell my lord I am cheer
ful, and bring me back word what he answers."

Caesar, arriving before the steps of the Senate-house,
spied amid the crowd there the soothsayer who had warned
him against the Ides of March, and halted to throw him a
rallying word. " So the Ides of March are come !"

" Ay, Caesar," answered the man, " but not gone."

Decimus Brutus stepped forward with a petition from
Trebonius. At the same moment Artemidorus pressed
close, and would have thrust his letter of warning into

4—2

52 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Caesar's hand. " Read mine first," he implored ; " mine is
a suit which touches Caesar nearer." But Caesar waved it
aside with a truly royal answer. " What touches us ourself
shall be served last." Artemidorus was thrust back into the
throng, and so the great man went up the steps, with the
attendant crowd at his heels.

However anxiously some hearts were now beating in
that crowd, he — the unsuspicious victim — was at ease,
possessed (as never before perhaps) by the calm conscious
ness of pre-eminence. The conspirators eyed each other
nervously. When anyone not in the plot approached
Caesar it filled them with misgivings. They had laid their
plan. Trebonius was to draw off Mark Antony, and
presently they saw the two step aside together. Metellus
Cimber was to kneel and present a petition for the recall of
his brother from banishment. Then Casca was to strike ;
after him all the others. They pressed around as Cimber
flung himself on his knees. Caesar guessed the nature of
his petition, and would have prevented him. " Courtesies
such as these might have effect upon ordinary men, not
upon Caesar. If this plea be for thy brother, I spurn
thee aside like a cur. Know that Csesar doth no wrong,
nor will be satisfied without cause." Brutus and Cassius
here pressed forward. " What, Brutus ! I tell thee that as
the stars in heaven are past number, but among them only
one, the pole star, is fixed and constant, so among men is
only one who holds his place unassailably, unmoved and
unshaken, and I am he. Hence !" as Cinna, in turn, knelt :
" Wilt thou lift Mount Olympus ?" he demanded ; and
turning on Decimus Brutus, " It is idle. Does not even
Marcus Brutus kneel in vain ?"

" Speak, hands, for me then !" cried Casca, and stabbed
him fiercely between the shoulders. As Caesar staggered,
the rest ran upon him with their daggers, hewing and
hacking. He turned at bay, but only to take the blow
from the man he most trusted, and to look him in the eyes :

JULIUS C^SAR 53

" Thou too, Brutus ?"

And with that he covered his face and let them strike as
they would, until his strength failed, and he sank in his
blood upon the pavement at the foot of Pompey's statue.

" Liberty ! Freedom !" shouted the conspirators, bran
dishing their daggers. But they shouted to empty benches.
The scared senators had started from their seats, and were
crowding in a panic for the open. The attack had been so
sudden that for the moment none knew how many were in
the plot, or could tell friend from foe. Cassius, turning and
seeing one aged man who stood confounded and unable to
flee, spoke a kind word, and hurried him after the rest.
For the moment these men stood alone among the pillars
of the deserted building — alone with the body of their
victim. Antony had fled to his house with the running,
screaming crowd. Thence he despatched a servant, who
made bold to pass through the awe-stricken few who
lingered outside and present himself before the group, as at
Brutus' command they smeared their hands and arms with
the blood of their victim. To Brutus what they had done
was still a deed worthy of old Rome, and as Romans he
called on them to go forward, and, waving their red weapons,
cry " Freedom and liberty !" through the market-place.

The message brought by the servant was merely a plea
that Antony might be allowed to come in safety and learn
what manner of burial would be granted to Caesar's body.
"Thy master," answered Brutus, "is a wise and valiant
Roman. Tell him upon my honour that he may come and
be satisfied, and shall go untouched." Brutus believed, as
the messenger had indeed professed, that Antony could be
won over to their side ; but Cassius had his misgivings.

Antony soon arrived, and seeming not to hear Brutus'
salutation, knelt first beside Caesar's body. "I know not,"
said he, looking up from his farewell, and letting fall the
cloak he had lifted from the dead face, " I know- not what
you intend, gentlemen, or what other blood must be shed.

54 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

For myself there is no fitter hour to die than this, and no
place will please me so much as here, by Caesar."

Brutus assured him they had no such intent. " Though
we must seem to you bloody and cruel, look not at our
hands, but at our hearts rather. It is for pity we have done
this— pity for Rome. Against you we have no malice at all."

" Join us," said Cassius, who better understood the man
they were dealing with, " and your voice shall be as power
ful as any man's in disposing of new dignities."

Antony put this aside. The part he had to play was
that of a true friend and admirer of Caesar stunned by the
shock of the murder, yet willing to believe that other men
were wiser than he in his fondness could be. He took the
hand of each conspirator in turn, and then seemed to break
down under the thought that these hands had just murdered
his friend. " Pardon me, Julius ! So it was here they
brought thee to bay ; here thy hunters stand red with blood,
and thou liest among them like a royal stag struck down by
many princes !"

" Mark Antony " interrupted Cassius. But again

Antony seemed to misunderstand him.

" Pardon me, Caius Cassius ; even an enemy might say
this. How much more a friend such as I was ?"

" I blame you not for praising Caesar. But I am im
patient to know what compact you mean to have with us,
and if we may depend on you."

" It was for that I shook hands with you; but the sight
of Caesar distracted me. Yes, I am friends with you all if
you will tell me why and in what Caesar was so dangerous."

"Certainly," put in Brutus, "this would indeed be a
savage spectacle if we could give no reasons for it ; but we
can — reasons that would satisfy you were you Caesar's
own son."

"That is all I ask; except this, that I may carry his
body to the market-place and, as becomes a friend, make
my speech among the funeral rites in due course."

JULIUS C/ESAR 55

" You shall," promised Brutus ; but Cassius drew him
aside. " You know not what you are promising," he
whispered. " Do not consent to this. Consider how he
may move the people." But Brutus never doubted that,
his own reasons being good, he had only to state them to
convince everybody. " By your leave," said he, " I will
myself mount the pulpit first and show what reasons we
had for Caesar's death ; and explain that what Antony may
say is said by our permission. It will do us more advantage
than harm to show our wish that Caesar should be buried
with all lawful ceremonies."

Cassius was discontented, but gave way again ; and
Antony readily accepted the conditions. The conspirators
left him to prepare the body. Sinking on his knees beside
it, he begged its dumb forgiveness that he must behave so
meekly and gently with " these butchers." Then after
prophetic promise of the curse this murder should bring
upon Rome and Italy, he rose, despatched a messenger to
Octavius, Caesar's adopted son, and, lifting the body, bore
it out to the market-place.

Brutus had already mounted the rostrum and was
addressing the crowd. And the crowd listened approvingly,
because they respected his character ; but his formal
sentences did not kindle them. " Romans, countrymen,
and lovers! my appeal is to your judgment. If there be
any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I
say that Brutus' love for Caesar was no less than his. If,
then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar,
this is my answer : not that I loved Caesar less, but that I
loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free
men ? . . . , Who is here so base that he would be a bond
man ? Who so rude that he would not _be a Roman ?
Who so vile that he will not love his country ? If any,
speak ; for him have I offended. I pause fora reply."

This was speaking " like a book," as we say. The im-

56 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

pressed but slightly puzzled crowd, finding an answer
expected, cried, after a moment, " None, Brutus, none !"

" Then I have offended none," the speaker argued, and
was enlarging on the necessity of Caesar's death when
Antony arrived with his fellow-mourners bearing Caesar's
body in sad procession. Here was a far more effective
appeal than cold logic, had Brutus known men well
enough ; but he was blind to it. " With this 1 depart," he
went on, "that as I slew my best lover for the good of
Rome, I have the same dagger for myself when it Shall
please my country to need my death."

" Live, Brutus ! live !" shouted the mob. And some
were for escorting him home in triumph, others for giving
him a statue with his ancestors. " Let him be Caesar !"
shouted one ; while another, even more sapient, suggested
" Caesar's better parts shall be crowned in Brutus." Com
ments so ignorant might have warned him of the mistake
he made in relying on their reasonableness. But the warn
ing was wasted. Begging them to listen to what Antony
might have to say, he stepped down from the rostrum and
withdrew, chivalrously leaving the coast clear.

There was some disturbance when Antony mounted the
steps to speak. The mob was persuaded after a fashion
that Caesar had been a tyrant, and that Rome was well rid
of him. " He'd best speak no harm of Brutus here,"
threatened the sapient citizen who had suggested crowning
Caesar's better parts. But having obtained silence, Antony
knew better than to begin by attacking Brutus.

" Friends, Romans, countrymen," he began, " attend ! I
am here to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil which
men do survives them ; the good is often laid away under
earth with their bones. Let it be so with Caesar. He
was ambitious, the noble Brutus has told you. If that
were so, it was a grievous fault, and Caesar has paid for it
grievously. Here, by leave of Brutus and the rest— for
Brutus is a man of honour, and so are they all, all men

JULIUS C^SAR 57

of honour — I am come merely to speak the last words over
my friend.

" For he was my friend, and to me faithful and just ;
though Brutus- -who is a man of honour — says he was
ambitious. He brought, in his time, many captives home
to this city, and poured their ransoms into the public
coffers. When the poor have cried, Caesar has wept for
them. It is hard to detect ambition in all this ; but Brutus
— who is a man of honour — says he was ambitious. You
all saw how at the Lupercalia I thrice offered him the kingly
crown, and how he refused it thrice. Was this ambition ?
Brutus says so ; and to be sure, he is a man of honour.
But I am not here to disprove what Brutus told you. I
am here merely to tell you what I know. You all loved
him once — not without cause. Can you not mourn for
him ? Oh, have men lost all their judgment, all their
reason !" He paused as one surprised at his own out
burst. ". Bear with me, friends ; my heart is in the
coffin there with Caesar. Grant me a while to pause and
recover it !"

His listeners were moved already. " There is reason in
what he says." " Caesar has had a great wrong, if you con
sider." " We may have a worse master than Caesar." " He
refused the crown — so he did — so 'tis plain he couldn't have
been ambitious." " Poor soul ! look at his eyes, red as
fire!" "There's not a nobler man in all Rome than
Antony !" Thus they murmured together, while Antony
conquered his emotion and prepared to speak again.

" But yesterday," he went on, " the word of Caesar might
have weighed against the whole world. Now he lies there
with none — -not the poorest — to do him reverence. Sirs,
if I were disposed to stir you to mutiny and rage I should
be wronging Brutus and Cassius — who, as you know, are
men of honour. I will not do this. I choose rather to
wrong the dead, to wrong myself, to wrong you, than to
wrong such men of honour ! But here I have Caesar's will.

58 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

If I were to read it to you— but, pardon me, I do not mean
to— I say if I were to read it you would run to kiss Caesar's
wounds, to dip your handkerchiefs in his blood —

"The will! read the will!" shouted the people; but
Antony protested that he must not; it was not meet for
them to hear how much Caesar loved them ; it would in
flame them, make them mad. There was no saying what
might come of it.

" Read the will ! Read it !" they clamoured.

But again he protested ; he had gone too far in speaking
of it ; he feared, indeed he did, that he was wronging the
men of honour — whose daggers had stabbed Caesar.

" The will ! the will ! ' Men of honour !' Traitors !
Read the will !"

" You force me to read it ? Then come, make a ring
about Caesar's corpse while I show you him who made the
will." He stepped down from the rostrum, and as they
gathered and pressed about him, he lifted the mantle from
the body. " You all know this mantle. I remember the
first time Caesar put it on — one summer's evening, in his
tent. It was the day he overcame the Nervii." He showed
them the holes made by the daggers ; where Cassius had
stabbed, and Casca, and Brutus — "the well-beloved Brutus,"
" Caesar's angel "— " ah, that was the unkindest blow ! That
was the heart-breaking stroke ! Then it was that great
Caesar covered his face and fell !" His hearers were weep
ing by this time, and he could be bold. " Fell ? Ay, and
what a fall ! My countrymen, then it was that I and you
and all of us fell, while treason and bloodshed flourished
over us. You weep at sight of his garments merely ! Look
you here then on him— marred, as you behold, by traitors !"

They were mad now. They shouted for revenge. " Fire !"
" Kill !" " Slay !" " Death to the traitors !" But Antony,
who had worked them to frenzy with such masterly art,
must perfect that frenzy before letting them slip.

" Good friends, sweet friends, I must not stir you up so.

JULIUS C^SAR 59

The men who have done this deed are men of honour.
What private griefs they had against Caesar to make them
do it, I know not, alas ! But as men of honour they will
give you their reasons. You see, I am no orator like
Brutus !" — indeed he was not ! — " but, as you all know me,
a plain blunt man, who love my friend, and have permission
to speak. For I have no gifts of eloquence to set men's
blood stirring. I only speak right on, telling you what you
know already, showing you Caesar's wounds, and bidding
them speak for me. Were I Brutus now, I could put a
tongue into every wound of Caesar that should move the
very stones of Rome to rise in revolt."

" And so will we !" " Burn the house of Brutus !" "Down
with the conspirators !" Antony had to shout for a hearing.
" Why, friends, you are going to do you know not what !
Nay, you scarce know yet how much cause you have to
love Caesar. You have forgotten the will I told you of."

" True— the will ! Read the will !"

" Here is the will, then, sealed by Caesar. It gives to
every Roman citizen a legacy of seventy-five drachmas," —
again the hubbub was deafening — " and to the citizens in
general he bequeaths his gardens and orchards beyond
Tiber, to them and their heirs for their recreation for
ever. . . ."

They listened for no more. They rushed on the market
place, tearing up benches, stalls, tables, and heaping the
wreckage for a funeral pile. They laid the body of Caesar
on it and set fire to the mass ; and as it grew hot they
plucked out the blazing brands and rushed off towards the
conspirators' houses, yelling for revenge. Antony could
watch now. He had done his work, and done it thoroughly.

But the conspirators had been warned, and by this time
were riding through the gates in hot haste. They drew
rein at Antium. The mob, after all, was but a mob ; and,
though Antony doubtless coveted Caesar's place, before he
could aspire to it he must win the army. The senatorial

60 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

party on the whole supported the conspirators; for when
Brutus and the rest talked of Roman liberty, what they
meant was the privileges of the old Roman families, which
still composed the Senate, not the rights of the populace.
It was the senate, not the populace, which had resented
Caesar's absolute power, and for their deliverance the blow
had been struck. Officially the senators had, by law and in
name at any rate, the army on their side ; for by law the
chief magistrates took command of the forces. So the con
spirators had much in their favour.

Between these two parties — Antony and the mob on one
side, and the majority of the Senate on the other — stood the
young Octavius, Caesar's grand-nephew and heir, with an
army at his back ; a young man, not yet twenty, but wiser
than other young men, with a handsome, expressionless,
inscrutable face, a heart without feeling, and a temper
inhumanely cold and obstinate— an enigma to all, and as
yet perhaps even to himself. Brutus and the rest had
made the grand mistake of conspirators ; they had supposed
that by killing a great man they could destroy the forces
which made him. Driven from Caesar's dead body, these
forces gathered again and centred upon Caesar's young
heir, and henceforth this statue of a youth is propelled by
them and moves as a man of fate.

At first Octavius inclined towards the senatorial party.
Brutus and Cassius went off to their provinces in the East.
In Italy Antony might have been crushed had the Senate
followed a fixed plan or dared to trust Octavius ; but dis
trust and divisions palsied their policy and the movements
of their troops. Octavius saw that he could make nothing
of them. On the other hand, by combining with Antony he
could crush them in Italy, and then turn upon Brutus and
Cassius in the East. As for Antony — well, time would show.

The two chiefs met, and took into their counsels one
Marcus ^milius Lepidus— a weak man, but a name of
weight and influence with the popular party. The three

JULIUS C^SAR 61

appointed themselves to a Triumvirate — in other words, a
three-man dictatorship — and divided up the Roman Empire
between them as though it had been their own inheritance.
To effect this, however, certain prominent men had to be
got rid of, and each Triumvir was naturally anxious to
shield his own friends. At length, however, by bartering
their separate friendships against their hatreds, they " pro
scribed" or marked down and put to death all who were
likely to interfere with their plans. Octavius handed over
Cicero to Antony, who in turn sacrificed Lucius Caesar, his
uncle on his mother's side ; while Lepidus, to his peculiar
shame, suffered his own brother Paulus to be pricked down
on the list. Having thus by wholesale murder cleared the
coast in Italy, they could turn securely upon Brutus and
Cassius in the East.

And in the East Brutus was beginning to learn that
the philosophy found in books will not carry a man through
the business of statecraft, especially when one is conducting
a revolution. He wanted money, and pressed Cassius for
money. He would have no unjust tolls levied in his own
province, and disgraced his subordinate, Lucius Pella, on
finding him guilty of pilfering the inhabitants of Sardis.
Yet he must have known, had he considered, that if Cassius
had money to spare it was only by behaving less scrupu
lously. This punishment of Pella annoyed Cassius, who
took it for a reflection upon himself, having dealt leniently
a few days before with two of his own officers similarly
convicted. At Brutus' request he came with his army to
Sardis to clear up misunderstandings. The two friends met
coldly, for Cassius was genuinely incensed and made no
secret of his feelings.

Brutus, however, led him to his own tent, and setting
a watch on the door bade him speak out his complaints.

"You have wronged me," said Cassius, "in disgracing
Lucius Pella and making light of the letters I sent appealing
for him."

62 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

"You wronged yourself, rather, to write in such a

case."

''This is no time for laying stress on every petty

offence."

Now Brutus was suffering and hiding a private sorrow of
which his friend knew nothing. Under such trials the
tempers of good men grow infirm.

" Let me tell you," he broke out violently, " you yourself,
Cassius, are accused of an itching palm — of trafficking your
offices for gold to unworthy men !"

" I ! an itching palm !" Cassius sprang up indignant,
blankly astonished. " You know you are Brutus who utter
the words, or by the gods that speech were your last !"

" The name of Cassius honours this corrupt dealing, and
therefore it goes without chastisement."
" Chastisement !"

But Brutus was not to be checked. " Remember March
— remember the Ides of March ! Why did Caesar bleed,
but for justice ? Was there a man of us stabbed him
except for justice ?" Cassius winced. " What ! Shall one
of us who smote down the foremost man in the world
because he supported robbers— shall we, I say, now be
contaminating our fingers with base bribes ? I'd rather be
a dog than such a Roman !"

We may pity Cassius now. The ablest, shrewdest, most
practical of all the conspirators, he had one soft place in his
heart — his admiring love for his friend. Time after time
he had given way to Brutus — in sparing Antony, in allowing
Antony to harangue the crowd, he had given way against
his judgment ; and always the event proved that he had
been right and Brutus wrong. His respect for Brutus was
a kind of superstition. And here he was being preached at
and pelted with opprobrious words by the friend who had
been pressing him for money, being too moral himself to
raise money in the only way it could be raised ! It was
intolerable, and he felt it so.

JULIUS C^SAR 63

" Brutus, bait me not, for I'll not endure it. You forget
yourself ! I am a soldier, older in practice than you, and
abler to make conditions."

Brutus caught him up. " What, you abler ?" " Do not
tempt me further." Cassius pleaded. " You abler ?" Brutus
replied with sneer upon sneer : " You a better soldier ?"
" I said an elder soldier, not a better one. Did I say
better ?" " If you did, I care not. . . . You threaten me ?
I am armed so strong in honesty, your threats go by me like
so much wind," — and Brutus began to twit him with refusing
the money, "/can raise no money by vile means, /had
rather coin my blood than wring the vile stuff from these
peasants. You know this, and yet when I asked you for
money you refused me ! Was this done like Cassius ?"
Cassius answered simply that he had not refused the money
(which, in fact, was true). " You did !" "I did not. It
was a fool who brought you my answer. A friend should
bear the infirmities of a friend, but you, Brutus, make mine
greater than they are. Come, Antony ! Come, Octavius !
revenge yourself on Cassius alone ! He is weary of this
world ; hated by the man he loves ; checked like any slave ;
all his faults set down, noted, learned by rote, cast in his
teeth. Here is my dagger and here my breast, naked !
I denied your gold ? Take my heart, then. Strike, as you
struck Caesar."

Brutus was softened, though as yet far from convinced
he was in the wrong. " Sheathe your dagger. I must bear
with you; I cannot carry my anger long." "And must
I live to be mocked and laughed at by Brutus ?" "I was
ill-tempered," Brutus admitted. " You confess so much ?
Give me your hand." " And my heart too." They had
come thus near to being reconciled when a noise at the
tent-door interrupted them, and in broke a crazy follower of
Brutus, one Marcus Phaonius, who set up to be a philosopher,
but from his eccentric behaviour was more often regarded
as a fool. This fellow had heard that the two generals were

64 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

quarrelling ; and, pushing past the guards, he struck an
attitude and began to recite certain verses of Homer, full of
wise counsel, but with such extravagant gestures that
Cassius burst out laughing while Brutus angrily hustled the
fellow from the room.

Nothing cleanses the temper like a hearty laugh. Brutus,
still frowning, called for a bowl of wine. "I did not think,"
said his friend, " you could have been so angry." " O
Cassius," came the confession, " I am sick of many
griefs."

" You — a Stoic — should make use of your philosophy."

"I do. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead."

" Portia !"

" She is dead."

So this was the explanation . . . Cassius sat stunned.
" How did I escape killing," he murmured, " when I crossed
you so ?"

Heart-broken with grief for her husband's absence and
the forces gathering under Octavius and Antony to over
whelm him, Portia had lost her reason and taken her own
life. Brutus told of it in a dull, level voice. It was Cassius
who broke out with exclamations ; not he to whom she had
been dear above living things.

" Speak no more of her," he said, as the boy Lucius
entered with the wine. The two friends drank to their love
before admitting the captains to consider with them the plan
of campaign.

At first, while Brutus discussed the latest news received
of their enemies, Cassius sat dazed and inattentive, mutter
ing of Portia's loss. He roused himself for a moment on
hearing that Cicero too had perished — " proscribed " by the
Triumvirs ; but it was a direct question from Brutus which
fully awoke him. "Octavius and Antony were marching
upon Philippi, on the border between Thrace and Macedonia.
What did Cassius think of crossing over to Europe and
encountering them there ?"

JULIUS C/ESAR 65

Cassius was opposed to this. It was better to let the
enemy weary himself and exhaust his means on long marches
than to go and save his labour by meeting him.

But Brutus made little of these reasons. The people in
Asia Minor were disaffected already and grudged their
contributions. Octavius and Antony would enlist recruits
as they came, and therefore were better met and opposed as
soon as possible.

Cassius would have argued. Once more he was right,
and Brutus wrong ; but either the old admiration blinded
him, or he was passing weary of altercations. He gave
way; the march was fixed for the morrow, and with the
friendliest good-nights they parted.

It was late when the council broke up, and Brutus was
left alone. A sense of calamity lay heavy on him. He
called for two soldiers, Varro and Claudius, to sleep within
his tent-door. They were willing to stand and watch ; but
he would not have it so, being always a kind master. His
slave Lucius brought him his gown and book ; the poor boy
was heavy with want of sleep. With some self-reproach,
Brutus begged him to take his lute and play. Lucius
would do far more than this for the master he loved ; and
began to sing, touching the strings drowsily, while the two
soldiers slept. The instrument almost slipped from his
hand. Brutus took it gently from him, and the boy's head
fell back on the pillow. And now the master alone kept
watch, holding his book close to a solitary taper.

Minutes past ; by and by — was the taper burning ill, or
was there a shadow deepening beyond it ? He looked up.
It was a shadow, but it had shape — likeness ; it was dead
Caesar standing there ! Brutus' blood ran cold as he stared
at the apparition. It seemed to him that he found voice to
challenge it. " Speak — what art thou ?"

" Thy evil spirit, Brutus."

" Why comest thou ?"

" To warn thee thou shalt see me again — at Philipph"

5

66 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Between dread and scorn of himself and incredulity
Brutus echoed the words stupidly, almost with a laugh.

" At Philippi," the vision repeated.

" Why, I will see thee then, at Philippi " — Brutus
brought his fist down on the table, calling " Lucius ! Varro !
Claudius ! Awake there !" — and looked again. The vision
had vanished.

" The strings are out of tune, my lord," muttered the boy
Lucius drowsily.

Brutus awoke him ; awoke the two soldiers. " Why
had they cried out in their sleep ? what had they seen ?"
They had seen nothing. Had they cried out? It was
strange ; but indeed they had seen nothing.

Had Brutus, too, seen nothing ? Perhaps. But the
spirit of Caesar — all that Caesar had stood for, all that he
had meant upon earth— awaited them on the plains of
Philippi towards which Brutus and Cassius set forth next
day. They said little to one another as they and their
legions marched deeper into what they felt to be the
shadow of doom. When they had crossed the straits and
were face to face with their enemies' tents, that shadow
hung visible over them. During the march out from Sardis
two eagles had perched on their banners and fed from the
soldiers' hands. But at Philippi these birds of good omen
had taken their departure, and now in their place the air
was darkened with a flock of ravens, crows, and kites
gathered from every quarter to forestall the grim feast
preparing.

Nor did the two generals wear the mood of happy
assurance. On the morning of the fight they took leave of
each other bravely, as men should, but solemnly, as men
prepared for the worst. If victory should be theirs, with
the gods' help, then they might meet again with smiles and
live all the rest of their days quietly one with another. If
not — then this day would end the work begun on the Ides
of March. No conqueror should ever have the joy of

JULIUS C^SAR 67

leading Brutus and Cassius in triumph. And upon this
they took their farewells.

In the ordering of the battle Brutus found himself
opposed by Octavius, Cassius by Antony. The two
Triumvirs were never in hearty agreement from the first.
Destiny alone bound them together for the time. Their
natures were opposed in all respects. The elder man,
eager, talented, and pleasure-loving, girded against the lad
who was young enough to be his son but who went his own
way so calmly and with a sort of bloodless self-possession.
Antony had wished to oppose Brutus. " Why do you cross
me ?" he complained on finding that Octavius had arranged
otherwise. " I do not cross you," replied Octavius, as if it
did not admit of argument ; " but I will have it so."
Antony said no more.

Brutus finding Octavius' forces at a disadvantage, gave
the word to charge ; and his haste would have been justified
— for his men at the first assault drove their enemies back
with great slaughter — had it not taken Cassius unawares.
As it was, Cassius' men gave ground before Antony's
attack. He rallied them only to find himself hemmed
round. Brutus should have relieved him at this point, and
the day would have been won ; but his men were plundering
and killing among Octavius' tents, and he could not recall
them in time. Cassius' cavalry were in full flight for the
coast ; he did what he could to hold his infantry firm, and
snatching an ensign from one of the standard-bearers,
planted it for a rallying mark, and fought on in hope of the
assistance which did not come.

At length, however, he was forced to pluck up his
standard and withdraw, with a few about him, to a little
hill which gave a prospect over the plain. His sight was
weak, but he could see his own tents blazing while Antony's
soldiery pillaged through them. He made out also a troop
of horsemen galloping towards him, and doubtful whether
they were friends or foes, sent one of his companions,

5—2

68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Titinius, to make sure. Meanwhile his servant Pindarus
had climbed to the summit of the hill for a better view.

The advancing horsemen had in fact been sent by Brutus,
though too late. Perceiving Titinius, and knowing him
for one of Cassius' friends, they raised a great shout of
welcome, with boastings of their victory. But Pindarus on
the hill, hearing the noise and seeing Titinius surrounded,
made sure that he was taken prisoner, and called down this
news to Cassius. " Come down," commanded his master.
The two were alone. " In Parthia I made thee prisoner,
and in return for thy life took an oath from thee that
whatsoever I might bid thou wouldst do. Take thy liberty
now, and this sword — the sword that stabbed Caesar.
Smite, I command thee ; now, as I cover my face."
Pindarus drove the sword home, and then, as his master fell
dead, cast it from him and ran ; nor was he ever seen again.

So it happened that Titinius returning crowned with a
wreath of victory and impatient to tell his good news,
stumbled on his master stretched dead upon the hillside.
The garland was useless now. Titinius bound it reverently
on the senseless brow, and forthwith, like a stern Roman,
slew himself upon the body ; there to be found a little later
by Brutus and his attendants. With bent head Brutus
uttered the last farewell over his friend—" the last of all the
Romans," he called him. " Friends, I owe this dead man
more tears than ever you shall see me pay. I shall find
time, Cassius; I shall find time."

In truth, as he said, the spirit of Caesar still walked the
earth and turned the conspirators' swords against them
selves. Brutus' own time was not long. The first battle
having proved indecisive, he offered fight again— to be
driven from the field with a few remaining followers. One
by one he drew them aside and entreated them to perform
for him the office which Pindarus had performed for
Cassius. Each shook his head ; they loved him too well.
It was a servant who at length, turning his head aside, held

JULIUS CAESAR 69

the sword on which Brutus flung himself — more gladly, he
said, than he had lifted it against Caesar.

Even his enemies respected the body, and gave it burial
with full honours. " This," said Antony, " was the noblest
Roman of them all. All the conspirators save him did what
they did in envy of Caesar's greatness. He alone joined
them in honest motive and thought for the common good.
His life was gentle, and himself so composed, that Nature
might stand up and say to all the world, ' This was a man !' "

KING JOHN

HENRY II., King of England, was lord not of England only,
but of a good third of what we call France. If you take a
map of France and draw a line from Boulogne due south to
the Pyrenees, you may say roughly that the country east of
it was swayed by the King of France, and the country west
of it by the King of England.

From his mother Matilda, daughter of our Henry I., he
inherited the dukedom of Normandy as well as the crown
of England ; from his father Anjou, Maine, and Touraine ;
and his marriage with Elinor, Duchess of Aquitaine, brought
him the seven provinces of the south — Poitou, Saintonge,
the Angoumois, La Marche, the Limousin, Perigord, and
Gascony.

Through his father— Geoffrey, the handsome Plantagenet,
Count of Anjou — Henry came of one of the most notable
and terrible races in history ; a race descended from a wild
Breton woodman who had helped the French king against
the Danes and won for himself a grant of broad lands beside
the Loire ; a race half-savage, utterly unscrupulous, and
abominably shrewd ; great fighters to begin with, afterwards
great generals, schemers, and controllers of men ; outwardly
good-natured and charming, but at heart lustful, selfish
monstrous in greed, without natural affection and indifferent
to honour ; scoffers at holiness, yet slavishly superstitious ;
and withal masterful men of affairs, sticking at no crime or
treason which might help their ends. Such was the character
fatally handed down from father to son. Henry inherited
his share of it, and passed it on to his sons, who broke his

70

KING JOHN 71

heart by their hatreds and conspiracies against him ; but
the son whose treachery darkened his last hour was his
favourite, John.

Of these sons we are only concerned with three — Richard
Cceur de Lion ; Geoffrey Duke of Brittany ; and John. On
his father's death, Richard — who had hastened it by in
triguing with the King of France — succeeded to the throne.
Geoffrey was already dead, but had left a young son, Arthur,
of whom we are to hear. Richard reigned for ten years, of
which he spent just six months in England. He was a
brave soldier but a detestably bad king. He looked on
war as a sport, and to feed that sport in foreign countries
he drained England by the cruellest taxes, which he repaid
with misgovernment, or rather with no government at all.
To him England, whose crown he wore, was a foreign land.
Now to John — who remained at home while Richard went
crusading — England was not a foreign land, not a country
of second importance. John was the shrewdest as well as
the wickedest of his shrewd and wicked race, and alone of
that race he valued England aright. We shall have to hate
him ; but let this be set to his credit against his black sins.
He was the first of our kings to teach England — by bitter
suffering, indeed, but still he taught her— to stand up for
herself and defy the world.

When Richard died of an arrow-wound received while
he was attacking the Castle of Chalus in the Limousin for
some treasure he supposed it to contain, John, who had long
been plotting against him at home, seized his opportunity
and the crown of England.

Pie had no right to it. The true heir was young Arthur,
son of his elder brother Geoffrey. But John was here on
the spot, and he had his mother Elinor's support — for with
her, as with the father he injured, he had always been the
favourite son. England acknowledged him ; Normandy
acknowledged him ; and in the south of France his mother
held Aquitaine secure for him.

72 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

On the other hand Anjou, Maine, and Touraine did
homage to young Arthur; and Philip, King of France,
stood forward to champion his cause — not, as we shall see,
from any burning sense of justice, but calculating perhaps
that on his borders so young and gentle a lad would be
a more comfortable neighbour than the ruthless and sinister
John. At any rate, in answer to the entreaties of Constance,
Arthur's mother, he made a fine show of indignation and sent
his ambassador Chatillon to, demand the surrender of John's
claims.

" What follows," asked John grimly, " if we refuse ?"

" Fierce and bloody war," replied Chatillon, " proudly to
control you and enforce the rights you withhold by force."

" Here we have war for war, blood for blood, control-
ment for control ment. Take that answer to France ; and
take it swiftly. For be you swift as lightning, the thunder
of my cannon shall be quick on your heels."

And John was as good as his word. Chatillon, delayed
by contrary winds, had scarcely time to reach France and
report this defiance to his master before John had collected
troops and was after him.

The ambassador found King Philip, with Constance,
Arthur, and his forces, collected before the walls of Angiers,
the capital of Anjou and birthplace of the Plantagenets.
The unhappy citizens of that town saw themselves, as we
say, between the devil and the deep sea. To acknowledge
Arthur, to acknowledge John, seemed equally hazardous ;
and an error in deciding would assuredly mean their ruin.
With admirable prudence, therefore, they had closed their
gates against both parties, and postponed the ticklish
business of declaring their preference until events should
determine which side was likely to win.

This hesitancy of theirs naturally annoyed Philip, who
had by his side, to support Arthur's cause, the Viscount of
Limoges— though the real importance of this nobleman
counted as nothing to his importance in his own conceit.

KING JOHN 7H

As friend of the family to a Plantagenet he was enacting a
new part. For it was by an arrow-shot from his Castle of
Chalus that Richard Cceur de Lion had perished.

This was hardly an affair to brag about ; but in honour
of it Limoges ever after wore a lion's skin across his
shoulders, and was swaggering now in this cloak while pro
fessing his love for Richard's nephew. But if the part he
enacted was new, he seemed to feel it a magnanimous one,
and promised Arthur his help and received the thanks of
Constance with the air of a man who has reason to be
pleased with himself and believe Heaven pleased with him.

While Philip was making up his mind to batter the
obstinate town into submission, Chatillon arrived with his
report and the news that John had crossed the Channel
and was following upon Angiers by forced marches, bring
ing with him his mother Elinor, a very goddess of discord
stirring him up to blood and strife ; his niece Blanch,
daughter of his sister Elinor and King Alphonso of Castile ;
and a whole crowd of dauntless volunteers who had sold
their fortunes in England to equip themselves and win
new and greater fortunes in France.

Chatillon spoke truth. Before Philip could bend his
artillery against the walls, John arrived with his host and
brought the French to parley. There was little to argue.
Philip took his stand upon Arthur's plain right to inherit.
." Geoffrey was thy elder brother, and this is his son.
England was Geoffrey's right, and this is Geoffrey's."
" Whence hast thou commission to lay down a law and
condemn me by it ?" was all that John could demand in
reply. " From that supernal Judge," answered Philip,
" who stirs good thoughts in the breast of any man holding
strong authority, and bids him see to it when the right is
defaced or stained. That Judge has made me this boy's
guardian ; under His warrant I impeach the wrong you are
doing, and by His help I mean to chastise it." The parley
might have ended here had not the dispute been fiercely

74 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

taken up by the tongues of the women, Elinor on the one
side, Constance on the other. Limoges in his character of
family friend was ill-advised enough to interpose between
them, crying " Peace !" " Hear the crier !" exclaimed a
mocking voice at his elbow. The insulted noble turned
round, demanding who dared thus to interrupt, and found
himself face to face with a bluff and burly Englishman, a
soldier commanding in John's army, Robert Faulconbridge
by name.

Now this Faulconbridge was a son of Richard Cceur de
Lion's, born out of wedlock. Like his father, he loved
fighting for its own sake, and like a true Englishman he
loved his country. So when John offered him service
abroad, these two passions of his jumped together, and he
readily gave up all claim to his estates at home and took
the knighthood held out to him as his reward. The honour,
as he confessed, he might learn to rise to. It was his
humour to make himself out a rough and careless free-lance.
But this blunt humour covered a real earnestness, and to
see his father's memory insulted by this Limoges with the
lion's skin was more than he could endure.

" Who is this fellow ?" demanded Limoges.

" One that will soon let you know, sir, if I can catch you
and that hide of yours alone. I'll tan that skin-coat for
you, I promise you. So look to it!" and Faulconbridge
rated him until the ladies of John's train began to join in
the sport. "See," went on Faulconbridge, "the ass in
lion's clothing! Ass, I'll take that burden off you, never
fear, or lay on another that your shoulders shall feel !"

Limoges turned away in disgust; and Philip calling
silence on this noisy diversion, demanded if John would
resign his usurped titles and lay down his arms. " My life
as soon!" John retorted, and called on Arthur to submit,
promising him more by way of recompense than ever the
coward hand of France could win for him. Elinor, too,
urged Arthur to submit. " Do, child," mimicked Constance,

KING JOHN 75

using such prattle as is used to children. " Go to it
grandam ; give grandam kingdom, and grandam will give
it a plum, a cherry, and a fig; there's a good grandam."
The women's tongues broke loose again. Philip with
difficulty cried them down at length, and bade a trumpet be
blown to summon the citizens of Angiers to the parley.

The citizens appeared on the walls, and John and Philip
in turn urged them by threats and persuasion to make
their decision. The citizens made answer that they would
acknowledge neither John nor Arthur until one had proved
himself the stronger ; for him they reserved their sub
mission. In this resolution they were obstinate, and the
two parties drew off to array their armies for the test of
combat.

But the engagement which followed was indecisive.
Each side claimed some trifling success, and on the strength
of their claims the heralds of France and England were
soon under the walls once more urging the citizens to
decide. The citizens, who had watched the fight with
impartial minds and from a capital position, made answer
to the heralds and to the impatient kings who followed, that
in their opinion no advantage had been gained by either
party, and that they abode by their determination to keep
their gates barred.

On hearing this answer it occurred to the pugnacious
Faulconbridge to recollect that once upon a time the
factions in Jerusalem under John of Giscala and Simon
bar-Gioras had ceased their assaults upon each other to
combine in resisting the Romans. He suggested that this
example from history was worth copying, and that by first
combining their forces to batter down Angiers, France and
England would clear the ground for settling their own
quarrel. To this wild counsel, as its author modestly called
it, Philip and John were the more readily disposed to listen
because in fact there appeared no other way out of a some
what ludicrous fix.

76 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Hitherto the citizens of Angiers had found the easiest
policy — that of sitting still and waiting — the wisest. But
now they saw clearly it was high time for them in their
turn to make a suggestion ; for if the two kings listened to
Faulconbridge, as they seemed not averse from doing,
Angiers was doomed.

So their spokesman craved leave for a word, and it was
granted. This astute burgess saw well enough that the
real decision for Angiers lay, not between Arthur and John,
its rightful and its wrongful sovereign, but between the army
of Philip and the army of John. From the beginning he
had pledged the town to accept as in the right the claimant
which should prove the stronger ; and from this there was
but a short step to the proposal he now made, which with
out any regard for right was simply aimed to get both
armies on the same side.

" See," said he, " on one side here is the Lady Blanch,
the niece of England ; on the other, Lewis, the Dauphin of
France. Where could be sought and found a couple more
clearly suited each for the other ? Unite them, and you
unite two divided excellences, which only need union to be
perfection ; you join two silver currents such as together
glorify the banks that bound them in." It was a shameless
proposal, but the speaker was addressing shameless ears,
and did not allow this to trouble him. Indeed his eloquence
began to carry him away. " Marry them," said he, " and
their union shall do more than battery upon our gates.
But without this match the sea enraged is not half so deaf,
nor are lions more confident, nor mountains and rocks more
immovable ; no, nor is Death himself in mortal fury one-
half so peremptory, as we are to keep this city !"

" Dear, dear !" commented Faulconbridge, who had a
natural prejudice against any scheme likely to dissuade
from fighting, and perhaps a leaning of his own towards the
love of the Lady Blanch, " here's a large mouth indeed ! It
spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas, and talks

KING JOHN 77

as familiarly of roaring lions as maids of thirteen talk of
puppy-dogs I Zounds ! in all my born days I was never so
bethumped with words I"

But the speaker knew what ears he was addressing.
First Elinor advised her son to grasp the offer. She saw
that Philip was wavering ; perceived him already whispering
with his advisers; noted that he glanced about him, and
that Arthur and Constance were not present to harden him
in the right. " Will their Majesties answer me ?" asked the
voice upon the wall. " Let England speak first," said
wavering Philip. And John on this invitation spoke ;
offering Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers for the bride's
dowry. The bribe was too much for Philip ; the young
couple professed themselves willing ; Angiers opened her
gates. Philip had one spasm of contrition for the widow
and the widow's son he was betraying ; but John quickly
silenced his regrets. " Arthur shall be Duke of Brittany
and Earl of Richmond, as well as lord of this fair town. If
we cannot fulfil all the Lady Constance's wishes, we will at
least give enough to silence her exclamations." The whole
party passed through the gates to solemnise the contract
without loss of time, leaving that rough soldier Faulcon-
bridge to muse alone on the power of Self-Interest, that
goddess who persuades men to break their vows, and kings
to do off the armour which conscience has buckled on. But
Faulconbridge had perhaps more than one reason for
being out of temper.

To the Earl of Salisbury fell the thankless errand of
carrying the news to Constance as she sat with her son in
the French king's pavilion. Her outcries were terrible and
pitiful too. " Gone to be married ! Gone to swear a truce
— to join false blood with false blood !" She would not
believe it. She turned fiercely on the Earl, and then read
ing the truth in his looks, fell to caressing and fondly
lamenting over her boy. "Begone!" she commanded
Salisbury, " leave me alone with my woes."

78 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" Pardon me, madam," he answered, " I may not return
without you."

"Thou mayst — thou shalt. I will not go. Grief so
great as mine is proud," and she seated herself upon the
ground. " Here," said she, " I and sorrows sit. Here is
my throne; go bid kings come and bow before it !"

Terrible were the curses she uttered when the kings with
the bridal train returned from the ceremony and found her
seated thus ; curses and prayers for discord between them,
swiftly to be fulfilled. The officious Limoges again tried to
pacify her, and again most ill-advisedly, for she turned on
him and withered him with contemptuous fury. He was
a coward, ever strong upon the stronger side ; a champion
who never fought but when fighting was safe ; a ramping,
bragging, fool ; a loud-mouthed promiser, who fell away
from his promises. " Thou wear a lion's hide ! Do it off
for shame, and hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs !"

Limoges was stung. " If a man," he sputtered, "dared
to say those words to me !"

" And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs," spoke a
cool voice at his elbow, and there stood Faulconbridge
ready for him.

It was maddening. "Villain! for thy life thou darest
not say so !"

" And— hang— a calf-skin— on — those — recreant— limbs,'
repeated Faulconbridge imperturbably.

John had scarcely time to call peace between them before
a newcomer was announced — Pandulph, the legate of Pope
Innocent the Third. The Pope had grave cause of anger
against John. After the death of Hubert Walter, Arch
bishop of Canterbury, John had forced the monks of Christ-
church to accept a creature of his own, John de Gray,
Bishop of Norwich, as Primate. Innocent set aside the
election, and consecrated Stephen Langton, a cardinal and
thorough churchman, as archbishop. John refused to
allow Stephen to set foot in England, drove out the monks

KING JOHN 79

of Christchurch, quartered a troop of soldiers in their
cloisters, and confiscated their lands. Innocent threatened
excommunication, and now sent Pandulph to demand in
the Pope's name why John had not submitted.

This flung John into a fury. " What earthly name can
compel the free breath of a sacred king to submit to
questioning ? Go, ask your master that ; and further add,
from the mouth of England, that no Italian priest shall take
tithe or toll in our dominions. But as, under God, we are
supreme head, so under Him we will uphold that supremacy
without the assistance of any Pope !"*

" Brother of England, you blaspheme," put in Philip,
shocked by this defiance.

" Blaspheme, do I ? Though you and all the kings in
Christendom are misled by this meddling priest — this man
who sells divine pardon for money ; though you and all the
rest feed this juggling witchcraft with your moneys ; yet I
alone — alone, I say — will stand up against it and count the
Pope's friends my foes."

This was enough. In the Pope's name Pandulph pro
nounced the terrible words of interdict — placing John
without the pale of Christianity, blessing all who revolted
from allegiance to him, and promising the name and worship
of a saint to any one who should by secret murder rob him
of his hateful life. And the curses of Constance echoed the
appalling sentences.

Then turning to Philip, Pandulph bade him, on peril of
the Pope's curse, withdraw his friendship and join with the
rest of Christendom against the heretic.

This demand, coming so soon upon his newly-knit com
pact, placed Philip in a truly pitiable plight. And standing
there amid the clamours of the women between the imperious

* Remember that Shakespeare, who puts this defiance into John's
mouth, was writing for a Protestant England. Call it right or wrong,
" England for England " was John's motto, and— black as Shakespeare
must paint him— it is also the motto of this play.

80 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

calm of Pandulph and dark face of John, who stood silent,
waiting for his answer with the sneer ready on his lips, the
King of France cut a sorry figure. In vain he protested
and appealed to Pandulph. The legate answered him
calmly, proving that to keep faith with John was to break
faith with religion — that to be friends with both was
impossible.

And in the end, as was certain from the first, Philip gave
way. Though by doing so he must set discord between the
young pair so newly married, he gave way. John had
looked for nothing else. " France," said he, with curt
contempt, " thou shalt rue this hour within this hour "; and
turning to Faulconbridge, bade him draw the English
forces together. Faulconbridge needed no second bidding.

And in the fight which followed, Faulconbridge, at least,
had his revenge. It is not known in what part of the field
he encountered Limoges, or what was said between them.
But he returned nonchalantly bearing Limoges' head, and
asserting that, by his life, it was very hot weather !

John, too, enjoyed some measure of revenge in taking
prisoner young Arthur, whom he handed over into the
keeping of his Chamberlain, Hubert de Burgh. In the
camp of the beaten French there was little doubt now of
the fate in store for the boy. His mother, Constance, cried
for him, and refused to be comforted. Her body had
become a grave to her soul, a prison holding the eternal
spirit against its will. Her cries and calls upon death
wrung the hearers' hearts. They deemed her mad wholly,
but she denied it with fierceness. " I am not mad. If I
were, I could forget my son, or cheat myself with a babe of
rags. I am not mad." Binding up her dishevelled hair,
she fell to wondering and asking Pandulph if 'twere true she
should meet her boy in heaven. " For now sorrow will
canker his beauty, and he will grow hollow as a ghost, and
dim, and meagre ; and so he'll die. And so, when he rises
again, and I meet him in the court of heaven, I shall not

KING JOHN 81

know him — shall never, never again behold my pretty
Arthur !" Philip and Pandulph tried to rebuke this excess
of grief. She pointed to the Legate, " He talks that never
had a son!" Then turned to the King: "Grief! It is
grief that fills up the room of my absent child, lies in his
bed, walks at my side, puts on his pretty looks, and repeats
his words. Good reason have I to be fond of grief. Fare
you well ! Had you such a loss as 1,1 could give
better comfort than yours." And she went her way to her
chamber ; but as she went she broke out crying again, " O
Lord ! my boy, my fair son, my Arthur !"

Lewis the Dauphin and Pandulph watched her as she
went, the boy shallow of heart and head, the man deep-
witted and just now thoughtful even beyond his habit.
" Before the curing of a disease," he mused, half-aloud,
" ay, in the instant when health turns back towards repair,
the fit is strongest. It is strange, now, to think how much
John has lost in this which he supposes so clearly won.
You are grieved, are you not, that Arthur is prisoner ?"

"As heartily," said Lewis, "as John is glad."

" You are young. Listen ; John has seized Arthur, and
while that lad lives John cannot draw a quiet breath.
Arthur will fall."

" But what shall I gain by Arthur's fall ?"

" Simply this, that in the right of your bride, the Lady
Blanch, you can then claim all that Arthur did. The times
conspire with you. This murder of Arthur — which must be
— will so freeze the hearts of men against John that every
natural sign of heaven will be taken for an index of divine
wrath against him."

" May be," Lewis urged, " he will not touch his life, but
hold him a prisoner."

" Should you but move a foot," said the astute priest,
" even if Arthur be not dead already, at that news he dies.
That death will set the hearts of all England in revolt. Nor
is this all. Faulconbridge is even now in England ransack-

6

82 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

ing the church and offending charity. A dozen French
over there at this moment would whistle ten thousand
Englishmen to their side. Shall we lay this before your
father ?"

The temptation was too strong. " Yes, let us go,"
answered Lewis. " Strong reasons make strong actions.
What you urge my father will not deny."

On one point Pandulph was not mistaken. While Arthur
lived John could not draw quiet breath. No sooner had he
despatched Faulconbridge to England than he called Hubert
de Burgh to him. Of murder he would not speak openly,
but first he dwelt on Hubert's professed love for him, and
went on to say that he had a matter to speak of, but must
fit it to some better time. The day was too open. If it
were night now, and a friend standing by — such a friend as
could see without eyes, hear without ears, make reply with
out tongue, why then . . . and yet he loved Hubert well
and believed himself loved in return.

" So well," protested Hubert, " that were it death to do
bidding of yours, I would undertake it !"

" Do I not know thou wouldst ? Hubert," he whispered,
casting a glance over his shoulder at the boy, whom Elinor
had craftily drawn aside. " Good Hubert, throw an eye on
that boy yonder. I tell thee he is a serpent in my way.
Wheresoever I tread he lies before me. Dost understand ?
Thou art his keeper."

" And will keep him so that he shall never offend your
Majesty."

" Death." John muttered the word, half to himself.

" My lord ?" Hubert heard, and half understood.

" A grave." John was not looking at him.

" He shall not live."

"Enough." John made show not to have heard.
"Hubert, I love thee. Well, well, I'll not say what I
intended. To England now, with a merry heart !"

ARTHUR PLEADING WITH HUBERT.
(From a print in the Boydell collection after J. Northcote, R.A.)

84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

When Hubert, however, had his young charge safe in
England, John's commands became more precise. Arthur's
eyes were to be burnt out with hot irons — an order which
revolted even one of the executioners hired for the task.
And when the dreadful hour came, and Hubert had the
men stationed behind the arras with orders to heat the
irons, his heart, as he sent for the boy, sickened at the
thought of the black business. For Arthur with his gentle
and confiding nature had soon given Hubert his love, and
Hubert's rough nature was touched by the child who meant
no harm to any one and could not understand that any one
should mean harm to him.

Arthur saw at once that his friend was heavy. " Why
should you be sad ?" he asked. " I think nobody should be
sad but I ; and if only I were out of prison, and a shepherd-
boy, I could be as merry as the day was long. I would
even be merry here, if it were not for fear of my uncle. Is
it my fault, though, that I am Geoffrey's son ? I wish I
were your son, Hubert, and then you would love me."

This innocent talk was torture to Hubert. He feared
that more of it would steal all his resolution, and therefore
pulled out the hateful paper at once and showed it, turning
away to hide the tears that against his will came into
his eyes.

" What !" cried the dazed child. " Burn out my eyes !
Will you do it ? Have you the heart ? Hubert, when
your head ached, I bound it with my handkerchief — the
best I had — and sat with you at midnight to comfort you.
If you think this was crafty love, you must. But will you
ndeed put out these eyes that never so much as frowned on
you, and never shall ?"

" I must. I have sworn," groaned Hubert, and stamped
his foot for signal to call the executioners. It was pitiful
how Arthur ran and clung to him at the sight of them with
their cords and irons.

" Save me, Hubert, save me !" he screamed.

KING JOHN 85

" Give me the iron, and bind him here," commanded
Hubert.

" No, no — I will not struggle. I will be still as a stone.
For Heaven's sake do not let them bind me ! Hubert, hear
me ! — drive these men away, and I will sit as quiet as a
lamb. I will not wince, will not speak a word. Only send
these men away, and I will forgive whatever torment you
put me to !"

" Go," said Hubert, " leave me with him." And the
executioners withdrew, glad to be released from the horrible
deed. " Come, boy, prepare yourself."

But Arthur pleaded on his knees. " Hubert, cut out my
tongue, if you will, but spare my eyes ! O, spare my eyes !"
The iron, while he pleaded, grew cold in Hubert's hand.
He could not do this monstrous crime. It was ruin for
him if John discovered the truth, but he would take the
risk, and spread the report that Arthur was dead. Thus
resolved, he led the boy away to hide him.

His friends in the French camp were not the only ones
who foreboded evil for Arthur. To make all sure, John on
his return to England had himself crowned a second time.
The barons who attended — the Earls of Pembroke, Salis
bury, and the rest — were full of courtly phrases. This
second coronation, they assured John, was superfluous as
to gild refined gold, to paint the lily, perfume the violet, or
seek to garnish daylight with a taper. But behind these
polite professions they were whispering about Arthur's fate.
And when John bade them state what reforms they wished
for, the Earl of Pembroke boldly requested, for all, that
Arthur should be set at liberty.

" Let it be so," answered John, who knew, or thought he
knew, how idle a thing he conceded. At this moment
Hubert entered, and the King drew him aside, while the
lords whispered their suspicions.

" Good lords," announced John, coming back, " I regret

86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

that to grant your demand is beyond me. This man tells
me that Arthur died last night."

There was an ominous silence. Then the Earl of Salis
bury spoke. " Indeed," said he with meaning, " we feared
that his sickness was past cure." " Yes," added the Earl of
Pembroke, " we heard how near his death he was — before
he felt himself sick. This must be answered for."

" Why are you frowning on me ?" John demanded.
"Do I hold the shears of destiny, or can I command
life ?"

"It is foul play," said Salisbury boldly, and Pembroke
echoed him. In stern anger the barons withdrew. Already
John began to repent his cruel order, or at any rate the
haste of it.

Soon he had further cause. News came that France was
arming mightily to invade England — nay, had already landed
an army under the Dauphin ; that his mother Elinor was
dead ; that death, too, had ended the frenzy of poor Con
stance. How could he meet the invaders ? His barons
were disaffected. Faulconbridge, who had been levying
cruel toll upon the clergy, returned with word that the
whole country was uneasy, full of vague fears, overrun with
men prophesying disasters. In truth the interdict lay on
the land like a blight. All public worship of God had
ceased. The church-doors were shut and their bells silent ;
men celebrated no sacrament but that of private baptism ;
youth and maid could not marry ; the dying went without
pardon or comfort ; the dead lay unburied by the highroads ;
the corpses of the clergy were piled on churchyard walls in
leaden coffins ; the people heard no sermons but those
preached at the market-crosses by priests who cried down
curses, or wild prophets who uttered warnings and pointed
to the signs of heaven for confirmation. With news similar
to Faulconbridge's Hubert broke in on the King, as he sat
muttering in dark sorrow for his mother Elinor's death. It
was " Arthur," « Arthur," in all men's mouths. The peers

KING JOHN 87

had gone to seek Arthur's grave ; all the common folk
whispered of Arthur's death.

" Arthur's death?" John interrupted him savagely. "Who
murdered him but you ?"

" At your wish," retorted Hubert.

" It is the curse of kings to be attended by such over-
hasty slaves."

" Here is your hand and seal for it," Hubert protested.
But John, who by this time heartily wished Arthur alive
again, broke out on him with craven reproaches. Why
had Hubert taken him at his word? Why had he not
dissuaded, even by a look — a look would have been enough."
So he ran on, until Hubert had to confess the truth, that
Arthur was yet alive.

" Arthur alive !" The King sprang up. " Hasten ! Re
port it to the peers ! Forgive what I said in my passion ;
my rage was blind. Nay, answer me not, but hasten and
bring these angry lords back to me !"

But Hubert was mistaken. Arthur was no longer alive-
The unhappy Prince, scheming to break from his prison,
had escaped the watch by donning a ship-boy's clothes ; but
in a rash leap from the walls had broken himsslf upon the
stones below, a little while before the barons — Pembroke,
Salisbury, and Bigot — arrived in search of him. Before
hearing Hubert's news John had despatched Faulcon bridge
to persuade them to return. He overtook them by the wall
of the castle ; and while he urged them, they stumbled
together on the young body lying at the base of it.

" It was murder," they swore ; " the worst and vilest of
murder ; nay, a murder that stood alone, unmatchable !"
They appealed to Faulconbridge.

" It is a damnable work," he admitted indignantly. " The
deed of a heavy hand ; that is," he mused doubtfully, " if it
be the work of any hand."

"///" cried Salisbury. "There is no *// We had an
inkling of this. It is Hubert's shameful handiwork devised

88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

by the King — whose service, kneeling by this sweet child's
body, I renounce, and swear neither to taste pleasure nor
take rest until I have glorified this hand of mine with ven
geance !" And the two other barons said AMEN to him.

But hardly was the vow taken before Hubert himself
arrived, hot with haste, and panting, " Lords, the King
sends for you. Arthur is alive !" With that he stood con
founded, staring down upon Arthur's dead body.

" Begone, villain !" Salisbury drew his sword. " Mur
derer !" " I am no villain, no murderer," Hubert protested.
" Cut him to pieces !" urged Pembroke. Faulconbridge
flung himself between them, threatening to strike Salisbury
dead if he stirred a foot. " Put up your sword, or I'll so
maul you and your toasting-iron that you'll think the devil
himself has got hold of you !" And Salisbury, proud lord
as he was, obeyed. But, though Hubert protested his
innocence, the angry lords would not believe. Faulcon
bridge could do no more, and was forced, to his chagrin, to
watch them galloping off to join the Dauphin.

When they were gone he turned to Hubert. " Know
you of this work ? For if this work be yours, Hubert, your
soul is lost beyond reach of mercy ; nay, if you but con
sented, despair. Hubert, I suspect you grievously."

Said Hubert : " If in act, or consent, or thought, I stole
the sweet breath of this child, let hell lack pains enough for
my torture ! I left him well." He lifted the body and
carried it in his arms into the castle, while Faulconbridge
followed sorely perplexed. " I lose my way," confessed
that honest soldier, " amid the thorns and dangers of this
world."

By this time John's case was a sorry one. Pope Innocent
had formally deposed him, and was urging on the crusade
which the Dauphin led against England. Wales was in
revolt, Scotland intriguing against him. But, worse than
all, England herself could not be relied on. Betrayed by
his barons, who flocked to Lewis' standard ; denounced

KING JOHN 89

by the clergy ; sullenly hated by all classes, who laid the
miseries of the interdict to his account ; the King felt the
ground slipping from under his feet.

But he was an Angevin, after all ; that is to say, as
diabolically clever as he was shameless. It only needed
shamelessness, and by a bold stroke he could turn the tables
on France, and perhaps win back all. John played it. He
sent for Pandulph, and hypocritically tendered his submis
sion to the Pope, on condition that the Pope called off the
French and put a stop to the crusade against him. Like
many a man without religion John was slavishly super
stitious, and he had heard it prophesied that before Ascen
sion Day he should deliver up his crown ; and it pleased
him to think that by this form of tendering it into Pandulph's
hands he was cheating Heaven as well as his enemies.

Pandulph gave him back the circlet, and hastened off to
compel the Dauphin to lay down his arms. Scarcely had
he left before Faulconbridge arrived with news that London
had thrown open its gates to the French, and the barons
refused to return to their allegiance.

" What ! When they heard that Arthur was yet alive ?"

" They found him dead— done to death by some accursed
hand."

" That villain Hubert told me he lived."

"On my soul," said Faulconbridge, "he did, for aught
Hubert knew."

John informed him of the peace just made with the Pope.
As might be expected, this news filled Faulconbridge
with disgust. It was too much altogether for his English
stomach. " But perhaps," he suggested, " the Cardinal
Pandulph cannot make your peace," — he had to call it "your
peace " — " and, if he can, let them see at least that we
meant to defend ourselves." And with John's permission he
hurried off to save what he could of England's honour.

Indeed, Pandulph was not prospering on his errand. He
found the Dauphin entertaining the revolted barons with

90 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

words as fair as they were deceitful, since, after using them
to crush John, he meant to make short work with Salisbury,
Pembroke, and the rest. Young Lewis had learnt his lesson
too well. As Pandulph himself had once suggested, he was
now by Arthur's death left with a good claim to the English
crown. In short, he flatly refused to draw off his troops.
" Am I Rome's slave ?" he demanded. " Your breath
kindled this war, but who maintained it ? Who but I pro
vided men and munition, and bore the sweat of this busi
ness ? Here I am with England half-conquered, and all
the best cards in my hand, and you ask me to retire ! No,
on my soul, I will not !"

In this temper Faulconbridge found him, with the legate
at a complete loss. It was the chance he had prayed for,
and he made royal use of it. In the name of England he
stood up to the angry Dauphin, defied him, and dressed him
down with threats. " Our English King promises through
me to whip you and your army of youngsters out of his terri
tories. What ! the hand that cudgelled you the other day
at your own door till you jumped the hatch and hid yourself,
and shook even when a cock crew — your own Gallic cock —
thinking its voice an Englishman's — do you deem that hand
which chastised you in your own chambers to be enfeebled
here ?" And having done with the Dauphin, he swung
round on the revolted barons and gave them their rating in
turn.

" Enough !" broke in Lewis at length. " We grant you
can outscold us." Pandulph would have put in a word, but
Faulconbridge bore him down, and with mutual defiance
the parley ended.

It was war now, but a war which brought disasters to
both sides. In the south of England the Dauphin met with
small resistance ; but the fleet 'which was to bring him sup
plies came to wreck on the Goodwin Sands, and the English
barons, warned of the treachery he plotted against them,
streamed away from him. On the other hand, John, though

KING JOHN

91

he kept the field fiercely, traversing the midlands by forced
marches from the Welsh border to Lincoln and breaking up
the barons' plans, was already touched with a fever which
increased on him as he started from Lynn and crossed the
Wash in a fresh movement northwards. In crossing the
sandy flats his troops were surprised by the tide, and all his
baggage and treasure washed away.

Shaking with the fever, which by this time had taken
fatal hold of him, wet, exhausted, and sick at heart, the
stricken tyrant took shelter in the Abbey of Swineshead.
There, men said, a monk poisoned his foodj but although
the monks had reason enough to hate him, we need not lay
this crime at their door. Panting for air, crying that his
soul might have elbow-room for hell was within him, he
was borne out into the abbey orchard. The tears of his
young son Henry fell on his face. "The salt of them is
hot," he complained ; and so, at the height of his own misery
and England's, he died.

His death put a new face on the fortunes of England.
Against a young king, supported by the barons and the
better hopes of his subjects, the troops of a foreigner could
not hold their ground for long on this island. And the
lesson of this " troublesome raigne " is summed up for us in
the wise, brave, and patriotic words of Faulconbridge —
lines which every English boy should get by heart :

" This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to herself do rest but true."

KING RICHARD THE SECOND

WHEN King Edward the Third died, the crown passed to
his grandson Richard, son of the good and gallant Black
Prince, whose untimely death all England lamented. And
though Richard became King in his eleventh year, all England
hoped much of him for his father's sake. In honour of his
coronation London was gay with banners and arches, and
the loyal merchants of Cheapside erected a fountain which
ran with wine for the rejoicing citizens.

But the sons of strong men are not always strong, and as
time went on Richard began to disappoint the hopes of his
subjects. He was weak, partly no doubt by nature, partly
perhaps by training • for he had too many advisers, some of
whom flattered him whilst all were intent on their own
ends. A boy may be weak and yet very wilful, and this boy-
king naturally made favourites of those who flattered him
most, and, being without experience, trusted to their advice.
At first he was given twelve councillors ; his three uncles,
the Duke of Lancaster (called John of Gaunt), the Duke of
York, and the Duke of Gloucester, being excluded : but these
three in their jealousy often interfered with the government,
and at last one of them, the Duke of Gloucester, was put at
the head of the council. Under him the Parliament — called
"wonderful" by some, and " merciless " by others who
admired it less — put to death two of Richard's favourites,
De Vere and Suffolk, and stripped the rest of their properties.
This incensed the young King, who waited his time, and at
twenty-two, declaring he would be in leading-strings no

92

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 93

longer, dismissed his guardians and for some years ruled his
kingdom discreetly and well.

But he was not great enough to forgive those who had
humbled him. Perhaps, too, he still feared the Duke of
Gloucester. At any rate, after eight years of merciful rule
he seized his uncle suddenly and had him carried off to
Calais, where Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, was
governor; and in the prison there Gloucester came to a
mysterious end. We cannot be certain that he was murdered
by the King's order ; but many believed this. And they
believed it the more surely when Richard began to cast off
pretence of ruling to please his people. He had chosen new
favourites — Sir John Bushy, Sir Henry Green, Sir William
Bagot — to replace his old ones ; and now he called a packed
parliament, which not only undid the acts of the detested
" wonderful " Parliament, but entrusted all future govern
ment to the King and a little knot of his friends. So Richard
for the time was absolute, and the kingdom suffered, as it
always must when a King postpones its happiness to his
private likes and dislikes.

Gloucester was dead, and of the other two uncles (what
ever they suspected) old Lancaster — or John of Gaunt — was
too wise, and old York too pliable, to accuse the King openly
of his murder. But John of Gaunt had a son Henry, sur-
named Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, a soldierly man,
who was not so cautious. Henry's wife, too, was a sister of
Gloucester's widow, and this no doubt made him more eager
for revenge. Yet even Henry Bolingbroke did not dare
accuse his cousin the King in so many words. He chose a
more politic way. At first privately, and then openly, he
charged Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk — who had been governor
of Calais at the time of Gloucester's murder — as a traitor.
The King summoned the appellant and the accused to con
front each other in his presence, and there, after mutual
defiance, the one protesting the truth of his charge, the other
his complete innocence, and both their loyalty, they severally

94 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

stated their quarrel. " I accuse Mowbray," said Boling-
broke, "first, that he has detained for his own use eight
thousand nobles which should have been paid to the King's
soldiers ; next, that he has been the head and spring of all
treasons contrived in this realm for these eighteen years; and
further," — and here lay the pith of his accusation — " that he
did contrive the death of the Duke of Gloucester, whose
innocent blood cries to me from the earth for justice and
chastisement." "What sayest thou to this?" demanded
Richard, hiding his feelings (whatever they were) and turn
ing to Mowbray. " Fear not because the accuser is my
cousin. Ye are equally my subjects, and the King's eyes
and ears are impartial, the firmness of his soul unstooping."
Mowbray gave Bolingbroke the lie in his throat. Each of
the disputants by this time had thrown down his gage, and
now each swore to uphold his cause upon the other's body.
Richard endeavoured to appease them, and invoked the help
of old John of Gaunt, Bolingbroke's father, who stood by.
But Mowbray flung himself at the King's feet imploring to
be allowed to defend his honour ; and finding Bolingbroke
equally stubborn, Richard ceased his mediation. " We were
not born," he said, " to sue, but to command. And since our
commandment will not make you friends, we charge you to
appear at Coventry, on St. Lambert's day, and there decide
your quarrel with sword and lance."

So at Coventry on the appointed day the lists were set
with all the ceremony and circumstance of those times.
The King attended with his train of nobles and favourites ;
and as they entered to the sound of trumpets and filed into
their seats along the decorated balcony, they found both
combatants armed and ready with their heralds. At a wcrd
from the King the Lord Marshal, to whom fell the solemn
business of dressing the lists, approached Mowbray the
defendant, and demanded his name and quarrel.

" My name," was the answer, " is Thomas Mowbray,
Duke of Norfolk, and I come hither upon my knightly oath,

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 95

to defend my loyalty and truth to God, my King, and my
heirs, against the Duke of Hereford who appeals me ; and
by the grace of God and this arm of mine to prove him a
traitor to my God, my King, and me. And as I truly fight,
defend me Heaven !"

Bolingbroke, on being asked the same question, declared,
" I am Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, who stand
in arms here ready to prove in lists upon Thomas Mowbray,
Duke of Norfolk, by God's grace and my bodily valour, that
he is a traitor to God, to King Richard, and to me. And
as I truly fight, defend me Heaven !"

The Lord Marshal thereupon (as the custom was) gave
warning that no man should, upon pain of death, enter or
touch the lists, except only the officers appointed to direct
the duel. But before engaging Bolingbroke craved leave to
kneel and kiss the King's hand ; "for," said he, " Mowbray
and I are like two men vowed to a long and weary pilgrim
age, and it were fitting that we took a ceremonious and
loving farewell of our friends." "Nay," said the King,
when this message was reported ; " we will ourselves
descend and embrace him ;" and he did so, saying, " Cousin
of Hereford, as thy cause is right, so be thy fortune !" mean
ing " as far as," or "if thy cause is right," for he well knew
that the charge against Mowbray was covertly aimed at
himself. And he added, " Though thy blood and mine be
kin, if thy blood be shed we may lament but not avenge
thee." " Nay," answered Bolingbroke, who took his mean
ing, " let no man lament for me if I fall. But I go to this
fight, and so I take my leave, confident, lusty, young, and
cheerful. And do thou, my father," turning to John of
Gaunt, " prosper me with thy blessing, that my armour may
be proof against my adversary, and thy name take new
brightness from thy son's lance." " God make thee pros
perous in thy good cause !" answered the old man.

The King's farewell to Mowbray was purposely more
cold and brief. " However God or fortune may cast my

96 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

lot," Mowbray protested, " there lives or dies a true subject,
a loyal, just, and upright gentleman. Take from me the
wish of happy years. And so, as a captive from prison,
gentle and jocund, I go to this feast of battle. For truth
has a quiet breast." "Farewell, my lord," the King an
swered ; " in thine eye I read virtue and valour together."

With that he gave the word to the Lord Marshal. The
two combatants received their lances, and the heralds on
either side made proclamation : " Here standeth Harry of
Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, on pain to be found false
and recreant, to prove the Duke of Norfolk a traitor to God,
to his sovereign, and to him." " Here standeth Thomas
Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, on pain to be found false and
recreant, both to defend himself and to approve the same on
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby."

" Sound trumpets ! and set forward, combatants !" shouted
the Lord Marshal ; but as the pair couched lances and dug
spurs for the charge, as the horses gathered pace for the
shock, he glanced towards the royal balcony, and held up a
hand.

" Stay !" he cried. " The King has thrown down his
truncheon !"

For by this signal Richard, as president of the fight,
arrested it.

The combatants reined up. " Let them," commanded
Richard, " lay by their helmets and spears and both return
here to their chairs." And while they obeyed, and the
trumpets sounded a long flourish, he consulted, or seemed
to consult, with his nobles.

" Draw near," he commanded again, "and hearken what
with our council we have decided." And he went on to
unfold his sentence — a sentence of banishment on both ; for
Bolingbroke ten years, but for Mowbray no date at all.
" Never to return," were the hopeless words of Mowbray's
sentence. " It is a heavy one," pleaded the unhappy man.
" A dearer merit, and not so deep a maim, I have deserved

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 97

at my King's hands. Can I unlearn my native English
which I have learned these forty years ? I am too old to
go to school now. That to which you condemn me is a
living death."

But the King answered curtly that the time had gone by
for pleading. Yet, weak man that he was, he recalled
Mowbray and desired both him and Bolingbroke to lay
hands on his sword and vow never to meet and plot against
him — a foolish vow, which suggested a fear, and the keep
ing of which he could never enforce.

Both took the vow. And on rising Bolingbroke made a
last appeal to Mowbray to confess. But " No," said Mow-
bray, " I am no traitor. What thou art, God, thou, and I
know ; and all too soon, I fear, the King will learn and rue
it." And so he departed into exile.

No sooner was he gone than weak Richard, reading the
sorrow in the dimmed eyes of old John of Gaunt, impetu
ously relieved Bolingbroke of four years of his sentence.
His banishment, he promised, should be for six not for ten
winters. But this wayward leniency brought him little
gratitude. Bolingbroke did not even thank him. " Four
lagging winters," he commented grimly, " four wanton
springs ended in a word ! Such is the breath of kings !"
Old Gaunt was more nobly rebukeful. " I thank my liege
that for my sake he remits four years of my son's exile ;
though it will profit me little, since, ere the six years be
gone, my inch of taper will be burnt out, and I gone into
darkness where I shall never see my son." " Why, uncle,"
Richard would have reassured him, " thou hast many years
yet." The old man turned on him grandly. " But not a
minute, King, that thou canst give ! Shorten my days with
sorrow thou canst, kill me thou canst, but lengthen life or
restore it thou canst not." " Thy son," said Richard,
nettled to an unworthy taunt, " is banished upon good
advice — which thy tongue joined in giving." " That is
true," answered John of Gaunt ; " I gave it as a judge, not

7

98 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

as a father, and in the sentence destroyed my own life.
Alas ! I looked for one of you to say I was too strict with
my own. But you did not ; you allowed my unwilling
tongue to do myself this wrong !" To this the selfish
Richard could find no answer, but curtly left them to their
leave-taking. And a sorry leave-taking it was, the good old
man vainly casting about for arguments to cheat the bitter
ness of his son's exile. " Six winters are quickly gone . . .
this absence will make home-coming all the more precious
... to the wise man all places visited by the eye of Heaven
are ports and happy havens ... let necessity teach thee to
reason thus, for there is no virtue like necessity." But the
younger man brushed these flimsy consolations aside.
" Can a man bear to hold fire in his hand by thinking of
the frosty Caucasus, or cloy his hunger by imagining that
he feasts ? No ; to apprehend happiness makes him feel
more keenly the evil he suffers. But farewell England's
ground — my mother and nurse ! Where'er I wander, this
I can yet boast, that though banished I am a true-born
Englishman." And with this he took his leave.

But Richard, alone with his favourites — Bagot and Green
and the rest — could confess he was glad to be rid of Henry
Bolingbroke. For the King had no sons of his own, and
this son of Lancaster had wrooed the common people and
practised such affability that to jealous minds he seemed to
look forward with confidence to a day when the crown
would be his. "Well, he is gone," said Green; "out of
sight is out of mind." Thus relieved of present anxiety,
and having no child for whom his love might have taught
him that in the end a king's welfare and his people's are
one, and having emptied his coffers by selfish extravagance,
Richard fell in with a proposal to farm out the nation's
revenues to these harpies, who undertook to provide him with
ready money to suppress a rebellion in Ireland which for
the moment was giving him trouble One day, while they
were discussing this, Bushy entered with the news that

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 99

John of Gaunt had been seized with a grievous illness. In
such company Richard could blurt out his feelings. " Now,
may God," he cried, " put it in the physician's mind to help
him to his grave immediately ! ' The lining of his coffers shall
make coats for our soldiers in these Irish wars. Pray God,"
he added cruelly, " that we may make haste — and come too
late !" And all said " Amen."

John of Gaunt was sick indeed. His son's banishment
had been his death-blow; and now, at Ely House in Holborn,
he lay in his bed and discussed with his pliable brother,
old York, the last warning he intended to deliver to Richard.
"Vex not yourself; counsel comes in vain to him," urged
York. " But the tongues of dying men — these, they say,
enforce attention like deep harmony. Men's ends are more
marked than their lives. Though Richard would not hear
my counsel in life, his ear may be unsealed now." " No,"
said York, " for it is stopped with flattery. Save the little
breath thou hast remaining." But the dying man felt bound
to speak ; " for," said he, " I feel like a prophet inspired to
foretell that this rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last;" and
as he lay awaiting the King's coming, his lips began to
mutter, over and over, words of love for England and pride
in her.*

* This incomparable lament may only be rendered in Shakespeare's
own words, which no English boy, who is old enough to love his
country, is too young to get by heart, forgetting the sorrow in it.
Tears such as Gaunt's are drawn from a well of joy and pride in
England and of fierce love of her good name—

" This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

7—2

100 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

While he mourned, the King was announced, with his
Queen and train of courtiers. " How fares our noble
uncle, Lancaster?" were the Queen's words; but Richard
addressed York more roughly. " What comfort, man ?
How is't with old Gaunt." The sick man heard the word,
and his failing mind fixed and began to harp on it : " Ay,
old Gaunt — old and gaunt — gaunt with keeping watch for
sleeping England — gaunt as the grave to which I go."
"Can sick and dying men be so witty ?" sneered Richard.
" Nay, King, 'tis thou who art sick, and thy death-bed no
lesser than thy realm wherein thou liest and givest over
thy anointed body to be cured by these flatterers, these
physicians who dealt the wound." And rising on his pillow
he began to call shame on his nephew's mad misgovern-
ment. But Richard, white for the moment and scared,
turned upon him in a fury. "Thou lunatic, lean-witted
fool ! Darest thou presume on an ague's privilege to
admonish me thus ? Now, by my throne, wert thou not
brother to great Edward's son, thy tongue which runs so
roundly should run thy head from thy shoulders !" " Spare
me not for that" exclaimed Gaunt bitterly : " my brother
Gloucester's end is good witness that thou regardest not

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son,—
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm :
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds :
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death ! ' '

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 101

shedding Edward's thy grandfather's blood !" And so
having uttered at last the accusation which he had so long
foreborne to utter, and for hinting at which he had consented
to see his son exiled, Gaunt was borne out dying. " So be
it," said Richard.

But so incensed was he — men of his nature being angriest
when some fear underlies their wrath — that presently, when
the Earl of Northumberland brought news that Gaunt's
life had indeed flickered out, he rapped forth the order
which he had discussed secretly with Bushy, Bagot, and
the rest — to seize upon the dead duke's estate and moneys
for his own royal use.

Even old York — weak worm as he was — turned at this.
The nation's disgrace had not stirred him as it stirred
Gaunt, but he could feel a family wrong ; and for once he
plucked up courage to speak out — so boldly, indeed, as to
astonish Richard. " Why, uncle, what's the matter ?"
exclaimed the King incredulously, after a while. Even so
small an interruption as this dashed the old man's spirit ;
but he persisted— only now with some abatement of vigour
— in warning the King what danger he courted by con
fiscating Gaunt's property and thus dispossessing Boling-
broke. Richard quickly took the measure of this protest.
" Think what you will, we seize his plate, goods, money,
and lands.' " Then I'll not be by to countenance it," was
York's feeble conclusion, and with that he departed, mutter
ing that no good could come of it.

He was scarcely gone before Richard betrayed how a
little firmness might have carried the day. Almost in the
same breath with which he gave instructions about con
fiscating Lancaster's property, he appointed York to be
lord governor of England during his own absence at the
Irish wars. For in truth he had been brought up in a
wholesome dread of his uncles, and some of it still lingered
to be transferred to this last surviving one, and the weakest
of them all.

102 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

But if York scarcely knew his own mind, other nobles
knew theirs. The Earl of Northumberland, head of the
great house of Percy, only waited the King's departure to
call shame on his conduct, or, as he preferred to put it (and
men, when they meant business, have put it thus more than
once or twice in English history), on the conduct of his
misleading flatterers. He said enough, indeed, to make
certain nobles present suspect that he had more to tell, and
they pressed him to tell it — which he did. News had come
from Brittany that Bolingbroke with a few noble followers
and three thousand men-at-arms had set sail in eight tall
ships with intent to make a landing in the north-east of
England. They had been waiting only for the King's
departure. " Then to horse !" cried Lord Ross ; and " To
horse !" echoed Lord Willoughby ; and soon the con
spirators were in saddle and galloping northwards.

It was true ; Bolingbroke had landed at Ravenspurgh on
the Humber. There the Earl of Northumberland joined
him, with other discontented nobles ; and no sooner was
Northumberland proclaimed traitor than his brother, the
Earl of Worcester, Lord Steward, broke his white staff of
office and fled northwards to join the rising. The news
reached the Queen as she sat talking with Bushy and
Bagot. Her heart was heavy already after parting from
her husband — for she loved him, poor lady ! — and heavier
yet with an unborn sorrow ; for trouble often makes itself
felt before it takes shape. And when Green came running
with the ominous news, it sank like lead. Nor could she
take comfort at the sight of trembling old York, who
followed on Green's heels. " Uncle," she cried, " for God's
sake speak comfortable words!" But York, though he had
donned his gorget as if for war, could only wring his hands
and cry feebly that he was old, and " Why am I, so weak
that I can scarce support myself, left to underprop my
nephew's kingdom ? Would to God he had cut my head
off first ! Have no posts been despatched for Ireland ? How

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 103

are we to find money ? Sure I cannot tell what to do in
this tangle ... on one side the King, my kinsman, whom
oath and duty bid me defend ; on the other, Bolingbroke,
my kinsman too, whom the King has wronged. . . . Well,
something must be done ! Gentlemen, muster your forces
and meet me at Berkeley. I ought to be at Flashy where
my brother Gloucester's wife is lying dead at this moment.
But there's no time ; everything is at sixes and sevens !"

Clearly there was little to be hoped of so rambling a
commander ; and no sooner had he departed than Bushy,
Bagot, and Green resolved to save themselves by flight.
Green and Bushy posted off for Bristol ; Bagot to take
advantage of the fair wind for Ireland — the wind which at
once hastened the ill news towards the King and hindered
his own return.

There was good cause for their dejection and terror.
Escorted by Northumberland and his forces, Bolingbroke
marched unimpeded down and across England from Ravens-
purgh to Berkeley in Gloucestershire. Here with some
show of boldness old York challenged his advance, and in
an interview which he opened with great dignity upbraided
his nephew roundly with this bold act of treason. Henry,
whose action spoke for itself, was humble enough in words.
" My gracious uncle, in what have I offended ? I am
Lancaster now ; but my rights and revenues have — your
self knows how unjustly — been plucked from me and given
away to unthrifty upstarts. I ask for my legal rights only ;
but lawyers are denied me, and therefore I am come to lay
my claim in person." Behind all this, and behind the pleas
urged on York by the other disaffected lords, stood the real
argument which all were too polite to hint at — Bolingbroke's
troops. York hemm'd and ha'd. " Well, I can't prevent
you ; but if I could I call Heaven to witness that I would.
Since I cannot, I call you to witness that I am neutral. So
fare you well — unless it please you to enter the castle here
and repose you for the night." " An offer," answered

104 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Bolingbroke smoothly, " which we will accept. But we
must persuade you a little further — and that is, to go with
us to Bristol Castle, where I hear that Bushy, Bagot, and
the rest of these caterpillars of the commonwealth have
sought shelter." " May be, may be," answered old York,
who knew himself in no condition to refuse. " Things past
redress are past care," was now the one reflection in which
he could find any comfort.

There remained a last hope for Richard in the Welsh
army, forty thousand strong, which the Earl of Salisbury
had collected in Wales. But already this strong force was
weakening. A report ran among them that the King was
dead ; and in their superstitious minds this was confirmed
by a dozen idle omens. A blight had fastened on all the
bay-trees in the country, the heaven was full of meteors,
the moon had taken a bloody tinge, and prophets
whispered that such signs infallibly foreran the death ot
kings or their fall. One thing was certain : the King
delayed to return. And before he landed on the Welsh
coast, this army, which might have saved him, had melted
away.

But as yet Richard knew nothing of the extent of these
disasters. On his landing he wept for joy and touched the
very earth affectionately, comparing himself to a mother who
re-greets her child after a long absence and plays fondly
with her tears and smiles at meeting. And in truth this was
Richard's way ; whether glad or sorry, he must play with
his feelings and dress them up in fine words, and dandle and
make a show of them. " Nay, do not mock me, my lords,"
said he (for they could not always conceal their impatience
of this pretty habit) ; " this earth shall have a feeling and
these stones turn to armed soldiers sooner than see her
native King falter under foul rebellion." " No doubt, no
doubt," answered in effect the trusty Bishop of Carlisle;
"but none the less we had better be using all the means
which Heaven puts in our way." And old York's son, the

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 105

Duke of Aumerle, hinted even more roughly that this was
no time for dallying. Richard turned on him petulantly :
" Discomfortable cousin ! knowest thou not that thieves and
robbers range abroad boldly in darkness ; but when the sun
confronts them and plucks the cloak of night off their backs,
they stand bare and naked and tremble at themselves ! So,
when I confront him, shall this traitor Bolingbroke tremble
at himself and his sins. Not all the water in the rough rude
sea has power to wash the balm from an anointed King, nor
can the breath of worldlings depose the Lord's elected deputy.
For every man impressed to aid Bolingbroke, God hath in
his pay a glorious angel to fight for Richard !"

The entrance of the Earl of Salisbury interrupted these
big words. " Ah, my lord, welcome !" Richard greeted him.
" How far off lies your power ?" meaning the Welsh army.
" Alas," was the desperate answer, " no nearer and no farther
off thaji this my weak arm. My gracious lord, you have
come one day too late. Call back yesterday and you shall
have twelve thousand fighting men. But to-day that army
is gone. It heard that the King was dead, and has fled to
make friends with Bolingbroke."

At this ominous news the blood left Richard's cheeks ;
but at a word from Aumerle he recovered himself. " Am I
not King ? Is not the King's name twen,ty thousand men ?
Arm then, my name, against this puny subject ! Have I
not York, too ? And has not York power enough to serve
my turn ?"

But his high tone sank again as he caught sight of a new
messenger, Sir Stephen Scroop, with ill-tidings written on
his face ; and (as men will) he tried to meet the blow he saw
coming, and to soften it by talking humbly. "At the worst
it will be worldly loss. Suppose my kingdom lost. Why,
then, my care goes with it. Will Bolingbroke be great as
we ? He shall not be greater ; for if he serve God, we'll
serve Him too."

Poor flimsy arguments — and not even honest ones — to

106 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

fortify a king's mind ! For Scroop's tale was of disaster.
" Bolingbroke covers the land with steel, and hearts harder
than steel. Not strong men only, but greybeards, boys, thy
very almsmen, yea, even women, are running to him."
" What— what of my friends, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy,
and Green ? Have they made peace with Bolingbroke ?"
"They have made peace"— began Scroop. "O villains,
vipers!" broke in the King, and fell to cursing them for
dogs and Judases. As he took breath, Scroop explained
that the peace these unhappy men had made was not this
world's peace. Bolingbroke had taken them prisoners at
Bristol, and already the grave covered them. "But where,"
asked Aumerle, " is my father, the Duke of York, with his
power ?" " No matter where," cried despondent Richard,
and began again to play with his misery. " Let us talk of
graves, worms, epitaphs — nothing but sorrow. For God's
sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the
death of kings, and of Death, the King of kings !" and so
forth. " My lord," said the Bishop of Carlisle impatiently,
" wise men never sit and wail their woes, but seek to meet
and prevent them ;" and " Yes," said Aumerle once more,
"ask of my father York; he has a force to help you."
Richard, as easily elated as cast down, caught at the sug
gestion he had rejected a minute before. He was not only
hopeful again, but confident. "Thou chidest me well; to
win our own is an easy task. Say " — he turned on Scroop —
" where is our uncle York with his power ? Speak sweetly,
man, though thou lookest sourly!" "Alas!" said the mes
senger, " I look as I feel, and my tale is like a torture
applied little by little. Your uncle York has joined Boling
broke ; your northern castles have fallen to him, and your
southern gentlemen-in-arms have gone over to his side."
Under this last blow of all Richard weakly faced around on
Aumerle. " Beshrew thee, cousin, for leading me to comfort
when I was so sweetly on the way to despair ! By heaven,
I'll hate him for ever who speaks another word of comfort !

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 107

Discharge my followers ! Let them hence from me to
Bolingbroke !"

In this spirit the unhappy King set forth on his way to
Flint Castle, where he was scarcely installed before Boling
broke arrived with drums and colours and a force which
included the willing Northumberland and the unwilling
York. It was Harry Percy (or Hotspur, as men called him
for his brave and heady temper), Northumberland's son,
who brought the news that King Richard lay within the
castle. Bolingbroke at once ordered a parley. His trumpet
sounded and was answered, and presently Richard himself
appeared on the walls, with the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle,
Salisbury, Scroop, and the rest of his followers.

Bolingbroke did not himself advance to the parley, but
remained below the walls -and withdrawing a little apart
sent Northumberland forward to be his spokesman. As this
rough noble advanced, unceremoniously enough, the King
drew himself up and his eye (as even the watchers below
could see) flashed like an eagle's. There was a pause, and
" We are waiting, my lord," said Richard ; " you forget, it
seems, the duty of kneeling to your lawful King. If we be
not that, show us, pray, the hand of God that hath dis
missed us from our stewardship. Go, tell Bolingbroke —
who methinks stands yonder — that every stride he makes
upon my land is dangerous treason. He is come to open
war as it were a testament bequeathing him a crown ; but
before he enjoys that crown in peace, ten thousand bloody
crowns of mothers' sons shall change the complexion of
England to scarlet indignation."

To this Northumberland gave a smooth answer. "'Heaven
forbid our lord the King should so be assailed ! Nay,
Bolingbroke begs leave rather to kiss thy hand and swear
that he comes only to sue for his revenues and his restora
tion as a free subject. This granted, he swears to lay aside
his arms ; and, as I am a gentleman, I believe him."

" Then tell him," said Richard, " that he is welcome, and

108 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

his demands shall be granted," — a galling answer for a
monarch to utter, yet a wise one ; for, as Aumerle said, " We
must fight with gentle words till time lend us friends and
sharper weapons."

And it was an answer which yet gave Richard a chance,
had he kept a cool head. For by holding Bolingbroke to
his oath he could have forced him to choose between dis
banding his army and seizing the King by force, and so pro
claiming himself a breaker of his word. But the sight of
Northumberland returning so agitated him that he let slip
the very offer which Bolingbroke dearly wished to receive,
but hardly yet dared to demand. " Must the King submit ?"
he cried. "The King shall do it. Must he be deposed and
lose the name of King ? Why, then, let it go !" And turn
ing to Aumerle, who could not withhold his tears (for many
men yet loved Richard in spite of his waywardness), he
confessed most pitifully and in words that might have moved
a stone that his spirit was broken. " Let me now change
my jewels for a set of beads, my palace for a hermitage, my
gay apparel and my sceptre for an almsman's gown and
such a staff as palmers carry, my large kingdom for a little
grave — a little grave and obscure. Or bury me rather in
the King's highway, some way of common traffic, where
subjects' feet may trample, hour by hour, on their sovereign's
head. Nay, my weeping cousin, let us weep together, and
make a pretty match of our weeping. Shall we drop our
tears until they fret a pair of graves for us to lie in, and men
write over us how we dug them ?"

While he played with these poor sorrowful fancies, came
Northumberland with word that Bolingbroke desired to
speak with his Majesty in the base court below. The King
descended ; and, when the invader met him with due homage,
would not suffer him to kneel. " My gracious lord," said
Bolingbroke, " I come but for my own." " Your own is
yours," Richard answered, " and I am yours, and all is
yours. We must do what force will have us do ; and that,

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 109

cousin, is to set on towards London, is it not ?" " Yea, my
good lord." " Then I must not say no," sighed the King.

To London accordingly he was escorted, in name still
King of England ; but what he was in fact his reception
there told only too surely. For, as the citizens crowded to
their casements, all their eyes were for Bolingbroke, who
rode ahead on a mettlesome horse — Richard's own horse,
too, Roan Barbary by name — which paced as if proud of its
new master; all tongues cried "God save Bolingbroke!"
and Bolingbroke answered their salutations with bared head,
bowing to this side and that. As it is on the stage when a
well-graced actor leaves it and is succeeded by one whom
the audience holds tedious, so poor Richard followed, droop
ing beneath the scowls of his " faithful subjects." No joyful
tongue gave him welcome. No man cried " God save
Richard !" But some even cast dust down upon his
anointed head, dust which he shook off with a gentler,
simpler sorrow than he was presently to show in laying off
his crown.

For it was to come to this. Shortly, at Westminster, old
York — who was learning his lackey-like business of compli
ance more and more easily — brought Bolingbroke word that
Richard willingly resigned his sceptre to the " great Duke
of Lancaster." " And long live Henry the Fourth !" wound
up this venerable time-server.

" In God's name, then, I ascend the throne," replied
Bolingbroke.

One voice only challenged his right — the voice of the
trusty old Bishop of Carlisle, who, stirred up by God, as he
asserted, boldly and at risk of his head protested against
this dethronement as a sin against God, and prophesied the
wars and bloodshed that this division of house against house
would bring upon England in the end. " Well have you
argued, sir," sneered Northumberland ; " and for your pains
we arrest you of high treason."

He was answered yet more effectually by the entrance of

110 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Richard, who humbly offered Henry the crown ; and yet
with a last reluctance which Henry bore down by quietly
pinning him back from his wandering sentences to the point,
"Are you, or are you not, contented to resign?": and with
many pretty sad speeches too, which Henry (having gained
his point) treated now with some humour and little cere
mony, while Northumberland would have forced the King
to read over the bald confession of his misgovernment.
Unable to keep the dignity of kingship, Richard would fain
have dallied with the dignity of his sorrow. "If my word
be sterling yet in England, let it command that a mirror be
brought to show me what face I have, since it is bankrupt
of its majesty." " Go somebody, and fetch him a looking-
glass," commanded Bolingbroke, with brief and biting con
tempt. It was brought. "Was this the face that every
day kept under its household roof ten thousand men ? This
the face that faced so many follies, and was at last outfaced
by Bolingbroke ? Brittle glory and brittle face !" Richard
dashed the glass on the ground. " I have done. I beg one
boon, and will afterwards trouble you no more." " Name
it." " Your leave to go." " Whither ?" " Whither you
will, only to be out of your sight." "Go, some of you,
convey him to the Tower."

We left Richard's young Queen alone with her attendants
and her foreboding heart. One day, as the poor lady sat
with two of her maids in the Duke of York's garden at
Langley, she heard the gardeners chatting as they went
about their pruning and weeding ; and one began to contrast
their well-ordered plot of ground with England—" our sea
walled garden," as they called it, -so full of weeds, so un
kempt, unpruned, with her hedges ruined, her flower-knots
disordered, and her wholesome herbs swarming with cater
pillars. "Hold thy peace," the head-gardener chid him.
" He who allowed this disordered spring has now himself
met with autumn and the fall of leaf; and the weeds which

u

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-

g-s

SI

112 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

his once-spreading leaves sheltered — Wiltshire, Bushy, and
Green — are by this time plucked up root and all." " What,
are they dead ?" " They are, and Bolingbroke has seized
the King himself. Tis doubt he will be deposed before
long. Letters arrived last night for a dear friend of the
Duke of York's, and they tell black tidings."

The Queen, listening in the shadow of the trees, heard all
that was said, and came running forward all distraught.
" Wretch ! Where got you this ill news ? Speak !"
" Alas ! madam, and pardon me ; it is all true."

Poor lady ! She hurried to London, in time to post her
self with her attendants in the street along which in a little
while Richard came with the guard escorting him to the
Tower. In her eyes, if not in others, he was kingly still.
" Ah, see him . . . nay, rather, do not see him, my fresh
rose withered ; and yet, look up and behold him, that your
eyes may dissolve to dew, and wash my rose fresh again
with true-love tears !" " Sweet," said Richard, catching
sight of her and halting, " this is Necessity, to whom I am
now sworn brother. Hie thee to France, and there hide
thee in some religious house, and learn to think of our former
state as a happy dream. We two must win a heavenly
crown now in place of the crown we squandered here."

Was this her royal husband, answering so tamely ? Even
her eyes of love could see that it was a changed Richard —
changed in more than estate. "What!" she cried, "is
thine intellect deposed too ? Hath Bolingbroke usurped
even thy heart. Does not the dying lion thrust forth a paw
and wound the earth, if nothing else, in his noble rage at
being overpowered. And wilt thou take thy correction
mildly and kiss the rod and fawn — thou, the lion of
England ?'

She could not rouse him. "Go," he answered, "think
that I am dead, and that here, as from my death-bed, thou
takest leave for the last time." And he fell to fancying how
her tale would move hearers in foreign lands, as she sat by

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 113

the late winter's fire with good old folks and listened to
their stories of woeful happenings in ages long ago, and in
requital told them the lamentable history of Richard, and
sent them weeping to their beds. " For," said he, dwelling
with the fancy, " the very brands on the hearth will weep
the fire out, and will mourn, some in ashes, some coal-black,
for the deposing of a rightful king."

Their leave-taking was bluntly broken short by Northum
berland, with news that Bolingbroke had now changed his
mind and Richard must go, not to the Tower, but to Pomfret
Castle in Yorkshire. An order too had come that the Queen
must depart for France with all speed.

"Northumberland," said Richard, "the time shall not be
long before thou, who hast planted an unrightful King, wilt
desire to pluck him up again."

" My guilt be on my head," was the short reply. " Take
your leave and part."

" Come then, my wife, let me unkiss our married oath —
and yet not so, for it was made with a kiss. Part us,
Northumberland ; me towards the shivering north ; my
wife to France, whence she came to me adorned like May-
time, and whither she returns like Hallowmas with its short
daylight."

" Must we be divided ? Must we part ?" pleaded the
Queen. "Ah ! banish us both, or let me go whither he goes !"

But this was not allowed. With fond, unhappy speeches
they kissed and tore themselves asunder, not to meet again
in this world.

For even with Richard in prison Bolingbroke was hardly
secure, and his friends felt that he was not secure. Already
the Abbot of Westminster, with Aumerle, Salisbury, and
others of Richard's friends, had hatched a plot against the
new King.

It came, indeed, to nothing. Old York, discovering his
son Aumerle's share in the conspiracy, lost no time in de
nouncing him to Bolingbroke. A different father this from

8

114 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

old John of Gaunt, who had so heroically, yet sorrowfully,
voted his son's banishment ! Henry was not to be scared
by plotters of this order ; and at the Duchess of York's
intercession he pardoned Aumerle, who lived to become
Duke of York in his turn, and, later, to find a brave man's
end on the great field of Agincourt. The Bishop of Car
lisle, too, was pardoned, as his straight and fearless loyalty
deserved. And with the death of the grand conspirator, the
Abbot of Westminster, and the execution of Salisbury and
some of the lesser men, this small rebellion flickered out.

But while Richard lived Henry's fears must live too ; for
any uprising would find an excuse in him, helpless prisoner
though he might be. A certain knight, Sir Pierce of Exton,
catching up some unguarded word of Henry's, resolved to
set this fear to rest for ever.

In his prison at Pomfret Richard was already schooling
himself to bear his calamity. For even calamity can be
carried with an air, and — king or captive — a man of his
nature must be a figure. Friends to visit him he had none
but a faithful groom of his stable, who came with hardly-
won leave to look upon the face of his late royal master ;
for Richard, with all his faults and weakness, was a lovable
man, and could inspire devotion. The poor groom could
talk of little besides horses, but his sympathy was none the
less honest for that, and none the less grateful.

While they talked a keeper entered with a dish. " My
lord," he said, setting it down, " will it please you to fall
to?" "Taste of it first," answered Richard, who feared
poison ; and indeed it was the man's custom to do so ; but
this time he refused. " My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of
Exton, who lately came from the King, commands the
contrary." " The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!"
cried Richard, and began to beat him soundly. " Help !
help ! help !" cried the keeper. And at this signal the door
flew open, and Sir Pierce of Exton, with his armed servants,
stood on the threshold.

KING RICHARD THE SECOND 115

With that Richard knew that his hour had come. Weak
as his will might be, he had never lacked bodily courage ;
it has never been the way of English kings to lack it. In
his youth he had faced a crowd of armed rebels under Wat
Tyler, and- cowed them with rare fearlessness ; and the same
spirit was alive in him yet He snatched an axe from the
first servant and clove him down with it. " Go thou, and
fill another room in hell!" he shouted, turning on a second
and smiting him dead. But this was his last blow. Before
he could recover, Exton beat him to the ground with a fatal
stroke.

Thus died Richard the Second, more nobly than he had
lived. " I hate the murderer, love him the murdered," said
Henry, when the coffin was brought to him at Windsor ;
and perhaps he was sincere. England had stood sorely in
need of a firm and soldierly king, and now she had one.
But the crown had come to him through bloodshed, and not
without treason ; and men who inclined to question the
future saw the punishment for these things looming there
sullenly, though as yet afar off.

8—2

KING HENRY THE FOURTH

I

BOLINGBROKE, now King Henry the Fourth, found no ease
and little happiness in the throne to which he had made his
way so crookedly. To begin with, Richard's death did not
leave him the rightful successor. This was a youth named
Edward Mortimer, grandson of the Earl of March, who had
married Philippa, daughter of Lionel Duke of Clarence.
This Lionel was the third, John of Gaunt (Henry's father)
the fourth, of Edward III.'s sons; and therefore, while young
Edward Mortimer lived, the title of Henry was a faulty one.
• He rested it, however, not on law but on the goodwill of
his subjects. We have seen how as Bolingbroke he courted
the opinions and flattered the hopes of Englishmen of all
degrees. These hopes and opinions had given him the
crown. He was the popular King ; and now he must
approve the people's choice by governing to please them.

Unfortunately by doing so he could not avoid offending
the great nobles who had helped to exalt him ; and especially
the rough Earl of Northumberland, whom Richard had
warned "the time will not be long before thou who hast
planted an unrightful king shalt be longing to pluck him up
again." There was nothing these feudal barons desired so
little as to see the privileges of the common folk extended ;
lor each was a little king in his own territory and a law to
himself. But this happened to be just the mischief which
Henry's first Parliament set about correcting, and in the
course of its stormy debates no less than forty gauntlets of

116

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 117

defiance were flung down on the floor of the House. We
stand now at the beginning of the struggle which the Wars
of the Roses completed by utterly breaking up the old
feudal system. The first heavy blows against that system
were dealt by this Parliament of Henry's. Bit by bit the
Commons increased their power. Parliament took upon
itself authority to declare what was treason and what was
not ; it forbade government by packed assemblies ; it voted
the supplies of money and claimed to know how they were
spent ; it tried to restrain the insolence of the great lords by
forbidding any person except the King to give liveries to
his retainers.

Naturally the barons began to ask themselves why they
had seated this man on the throne, to consider they had
been tricked, and to feel sore about it. And Henry, who
read their thoughts, knew that he had no answer to give.
But above all the death of Richard lay on his conscience and
haunted him continually. In two years this burden had
changed " mounting Bolingbroke " into an old man shaken
and wan with care ; too much the man to faint or turn back
from the path marked out for him, yet conscious all the
while of a heavy debt which must be discharged some day,
and praying that the settlement might be deferred.

Two years before, when the news of Richard's murder
was first brought to him, he had meditated a pilgrimage to
the Holy Land to expiate his guilt ; but civil discord had
kept him at home, and the purpose was yet unfulfilled.
Now in a short breathing space his thoughts turned again
to a crusade against the pagans in the

" holy fields

Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed
For our advantage on the bitter cross."

But again while his Council discussed the expedition
came news to unsettle it. One Owen Glendower, a Welsh-

118 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

man and descendant of Welsh princes, had been educated
in London, and had served as an esquire at the Court of
Richard II. In wrath at his master's death and the con
fiscation of his own estates, he had raised a revolt in Wales,
and his harrying of the English border called out the forces
of the shire of Hereford to resist him, under the command
of Sir Edmund Mortimer, uncle of that Edmund Mortimer,
Earl of Marchj whom we spoke of just now as legal heir to
the throne. The encounter ended in a defeat of the English,
over a thousand of whom were slain, and their dead bodies
barbarously mutilated by the savage women of Wales.
Sir Edmund himself fell into Glendower's hands. Close
upon this came tidings from the North, more cheerful
indeed, yet not wholly pleasing to Henry. A Scottish
invasion had been roughly checked by a defeat on Nesbit
Moor ; but that brave Scot and inveterate foe of the Percies,
Archibald Earl of Douglas, had vowed vengeance, and
invading England three months later, was faced at Holme-
don (now Humbleton, in Northumberland) on Holy-rood
day by the English under young Harry Percy, surnamed
Hotspur, and was there utterly routed with the loss of ten
thousand men, including three-and-twenty Scottish knights.
Douglas himself lost an eye in the fight ; and five hundred
prisoners fell into Hotspur's hands, including Mordake
(Murdach) Earl of Fife, eldest son of Robert Duke of
Albany, Regent of Scotland, and the Earls of Murray,
Angus, and Athol.

Two thoughts at least poisoned Henry's pleasure in this
victory. In the first place it must increase in the North
the prestige of the House of Percy, already great enough
to keep him uneasy. And secondly, whenever men spoke
of the heir of that house, Harry Hotspur, he could not
help reflecting upon his own graceless son, that other and
very different Harry, who seemed deaf to every call of
honour, and squandered his youth in taverns with all
manner of dissolute company. " I would," he groaned, " it

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 119

could be proved that some fairy had changed our two
children in their cradles, and called mine Harry Percy, his
Harry Plantagenet !" And he would try to dismiss the
young scapegrace from his mind as he turned wearily to his
business of state.

The Percies at any rate held that the time had come when
they might bear themselves haughtily towards Henry. The
ransom of the prisoners taken at Holmedon would amount
to no small sum of money ; and when the King sent to claim
them, his messenger brought word that Hotspur flatly
refused to surrender any but Mordake Earl of Fife. In hot
displeasure the King sent again to summon him, with his
father Northumberland and his uncle Worcester, to Windsor,
to answer for this refusal.

To Windsor accordingly they came, but their bearing was
by no means humble. Worcester, indeed, who was ever a
sour-minded noble, flatly told Henry that the House of
Percy deserved no such treatment from one who owed his
greatness to it, and was promptly dismissed from the
presence. " When we need your counsel we will send for
you," said the King, and turned to Northumberland for his
explanation. "The prisoners, my good lord," the Earl said,
"were not denied with the positiveness reported to you."
But here his son broke in hotly. " My liege, I denied no
prisoners. But I remember when the fight was over, and I
leaning on my sword breathless, exhausted, and dry with
rage and hard work, there came to me a certain lord, neat,
trimly dressed, clean shaven, and fresh as a bridegroom.
The fellow was scented like a milliner, and kept sniffing at
a pouncet-box he held 'twixt finger and thumb, and smiling
and chattering ; and as the soldiers went by carrying the
dead bodies, he rated them for unmannerly knaves to bring
a slovenly, ill-looking corpse between the wind and his
nobility. In this mincing speech of his he questioned me,
and amongst the rest demanded my prisoners in your
Majesty's name. Then it was that all smarting, with my

120 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

wounds taking cold, to be so pestered with a coxcomb, I
gave him out of my pain and impatience some careless
answer — he should, or he should not — I forget what exactly.
For he made me mad, standing there so spruce and dapper,
scented and talking like a lady-in-waiting of guns and drums
and wounds — save the mark ! — and telling me that spermaceti
was the sovereign'st remedy on earth for an inward bruise,
and « it was a great pity, so it was, to dig that nasty salt
petre out of the harmless earth to destroy many a good tall
fellow so cowardly!' and 'but for these vile guns he would
have been a soldier himself.' This empty, idle chatter, my
lord, I answered at random as I have told you, and beseech
you not to take his report as any accusation of my love for
your Majesty."

" Surely, my lord," pleaded Sir Walter Blunt, a gallant
and loyal knight who stood among the listeners, " whate'er
Lord Harry Percy said at such a time and place, and to
such a person, may reasonably be forgotten and held in
the circumstances void of offence, if he be ready now to
unsay it."

" But I tell you he still denies me his prisoners !" insisted
the King angrily ; " or surrenders them only on condition
that we promptly ransom at our own cost his foolish brother-
in-law Mortimer, now held a prisoner by Glendower."

This was indeed Hotspur's stipulation, and one not at all
pleasing to Henry. The King had no inclination at all to
spend money in buying home a Mortimer of all persons in
the world. And Mortimer did not seem to find his captivity
intolerable, if the news were true that he had actually
married Glendower's daughter. From this to the suggestion
that he had led his troops against Glendower with the set
purpose of betraying them was no very long step, and Henry
did not find it a difficult one. " Ask us to empty our coffers
to buy back a traitor ! No ; let him starve on the barren
mountains ! He is no friend of mine who asks for one penny
to ransom revolted Mortimer."

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 121

"Revolted Mortimer!" Hotspur flared up at the word.
" He never did revolt, my liege ; never fell off from you but
by the fortune of war ; and to that his many wounds can bear
witness — wounds which he took in stubborn and bloody
combat with Glendower on the banks of Severn. Treachery
never yet took wounds of that sort, and therefore let him not
be slandered with revolt."

" Tut, tut !" answered Henry lightly. " Mortimer fought
no such combat ; he durst as well have met with the devil
alone as with Owen Glendower. Sirrah," he wound up
sharply, " speak no more of Mortimer. Send me your
prisoners speedily, or you shall hear from me in a fashion
you won't care for. My lord Northumberland, we give you
and your son leave to depart. Send us your prisoners, I
repeat, or you will hear of it."

With these words the King walked out, and left Hotspur
raging. "If the devil come and roar for his prisoners, I
will not send them !" He would have run after Henry and
shouted it, had not his father and his uncle, who re-entered
at the moment, held him back while they tried to make him
hear reason. " Not speak of Mortimer ! 'Zounds, I will
speak of him ; aye, and let my soul want mercy if I don't
join with him and lift him as high as this thankless King !
He will have all my prisoners, will he ? But when I urge
him to ransom my wife's brother, when I speak the name
Mortimer, then his countenance changes !"

"And good reason why," Worcester put in quietly. " Is
not a Mortimer true heir to the crown, and was he not so
proclaimed by King Richard before his death?"

" Ay ? Then I don't blame this cousinly King for wishing
a Mortimer to starve on the barren mountains ! But .you —
you who set the crown on the head of this forgetful man —
will you go on to abet this murder ? Shall it be recorded
of you that not only did you pluck down the rose Richard to
plant this thorn, this canker, this Bolingbroke— as you did
and God forgive you for it ! — but suffered the shame of being

122 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

fooled and cast off by the man for whom you stooped to do
it ? Nay, while there is yet time redeem your good name
and revenge yourself on this King, who would pay his debt
by plotting to take your lives." " And so we will," said
Worcester, "if you will hearken to the secret I have to
whisper. But I warn you that what I propose will be
perilous." " Perilous ?" — Hotspur was off again : " Give me
peril, adventure, anything so that it wins honour ! Set
honour shining in the moon and I will leap for her ; sink her
into unfathomed depths of sea and I will dive for her and
pluck her up by the locks, so that I might have her for my
own ! It's this half-faced sharing of honour that I cannot
stomach." " Pray listen !" " I cry your mercy ; proceed."

"These Scottish prisoners, then " " Pll keep them all,

I tell you ! By heaven, he shall not have a single Scot of
them, not if a Scot would save his soul !" " Nay, but listen ;

you shall keep those prisoners " " Nay, I will, and

that's flat ! He won't ransom Mortimer, won't he ? forbids
me to speak of Mortimer ! I swear Pll catch him asleep
and holla * Mortimer !' in his ear; nay, Pll train a starling to
say « Mortimer,' ' Mortimer,' nothing but ' Mortimer,' all day
long, and make him a present of it to keep his anger going.
Pll make it my life's business to torment this Bolingbroke ;
and as for that Prince Harry, that son of his, if I didn't
think his father would thank me to be rid of him, Pd have
him poisoned with a pot of ale." Worcester was making for
the door in despair. " Why, what a wasp-stung impatient
fool thou art," cried Northumberland, " that wilt listen to no
tongue but thy own !" " Well, and it does sting me when I
hear of this vile politician and remember the candy deal of
courtesy the fawning dog proffered me once at— where was
it ?— that place in Gloucestershire where we helped to put
him on the throne. How went it ? — « When my fortune
shall be better established,' and 'gentle Harry Percy,' and
' kind cousin.' The devil take such cozeners ! say I. God
forgive me ! Let's have your tale, uncle ; Pve done." " Nay,

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 123

if you have not, start afresh. We will stay your leisure."
" I have done, I tell you." Hotspur flung himself into a
chair, while Worcester unfolded his plot. Briefly it was
this — that Hotspur should return all his Scottish prisoners
without ransom and, crossing the border, on the strength of
this act of generosity invite his old foe the Douglas to an
alliance against Henry ; that meanwhile Northumberland
should visit and make cause with Richard Scroop, the
powerful Archbishop of York, who (it was understood)
bitterly resented the death of his brother, William Earl of
Wiltshire, at Bolingbroke's hands, and only waited an
occasion to be revenged ; and finally, that these two forces
should unite with Glendower and Mortimer from Wales,
a matter which Worcester charged himself to arrange
presently when the time should be ripe. It was a strong
plot, as Hotspur allowed. It suited his temper exactly, and
soon the two Percies were riding north to put their revenge
into action.

Here we must leave them and go in search of that Prince
Harry of whom we have heard men speaking from time to
time, but speaking nothing to his credit. While his father
toiled and watched and schemed to preserve the crown
against other ambitious men who threatened it, we shall
find him at ease entertaining his pet crony, an old, dis
reputable, and immensely fat knight called Sir John Falslaff.
There was much^good in this old fellow, or rather, much
that was amiable, in spite of his rascality and loose living.
He was, in fact, a gentleman ; a poor gentleman shaken
loose from the lower degrees of feudalism when that edifice
began to rock and totter. Shaken off, he had gone utterly
astray, wasting his days in drinking and rioting among un
worthy company, which in the end became a necessity to
him. His round face and grotesque, fat belly were familiar
in every low London tavern, and the butt of men far below
him in birth and still farther below him in honesty. Yet

124 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

with all his incurable frailty he kept so large a heart and so
sweet a temper that at the sound of his infectious laugh —
never so ready as at his own expense — men felt themselves
drawn to him even in the act of despising him. The Prince
found him the rarest of companions ; for you could laugh at
him, or laugh with him, or even both together.

For the moment their pursuit of folly left them a little
repose, and for lack of anything better — or worse — to do,
Falstaff sat drinking, while the Prince lounged and watched
him.

" Hal, what time of day is it, lad ?" demanded the old
Knight.

" Thou art so fat-witted with drinking and snoring after
supper and sleeping upon benches after noon that thou hast
even forgotten to ask what it concerns thee to know. What
in the world hast thou to do with the time of day ?"

" True ; the night is the time for us, who take purses.
Sweet wag, let there be no gallows standing when thou art
King. Do not thou, when thou art King, hang a thief.
Phew !" he sighed, " I am as melancholy to-day as a gib
cat. I prithee, Hal, trouble me no more with vanity. I
would to Heaven thou and I knew where good reputations
could be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the
other day in the street about you, but I marked him not ;
and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not ; and
yet he talked wisely, and in the street too. But indeed thou
art enough to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm
upon me, Hal — Heaven forgive thee for it ! Before I
knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now I am, if a man
should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I
must give over this life, and I will. I'll not forfeit my soul
for any King's son in Christendom."

The Prince looked across at him slily. " Where shall we
take a purse to-morrow, Jack ?"

" 'Zounds, where thou wilt, lad. I'll make one, call me a
villain and cut off my spurs if I don't !"

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 125

"I see a good amendment of life in thee," laughed his
companion, " from praying to purse-taking!"

Sir John grinned amiably. " But hullo ! here comes
Poins. Now we shall know if that villain Gadshill have
made an appointment," — this being a notorious footpad
named after a rise on the road between London and Canter
bury in evil repute for highway robberies. And Poins
indeed brought word of an appointment at this very spot.
" My lads, my lads, to-morrow morning by four o'clock
early at Gadshill ! There are pilgrims going to Canterbury
with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat
purses. I have masks for you all. Bring your own horses.
Gadshill spends to-night at Rochester, and I have bespoke
supper for to-morrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it
as secure as sleep."

" I'll go," promised Falstaff. " Hal, wilt thou make
one?"

" What, I rob ? I a thief ? Not I, by my faith." Prince
Harry had no prejudice against playing the madcap, but
he kept a good share of common sense at the bottom of
his follies, and highway robbery was too serious a jest
altogether.

" I'll turn traitor then," growled Falstaff, " when thou art
King," and assured him — having a pun handy as usual —
that a man couldn't be half a sovereign if he dared not stand
for ten shillings ! But Poins got rid of the old Knight with
a promise to persuade the Prince, and no sooner saw his fat
back turned than he whispered a plan which made Harry
rub his hands with delight.

So it was that while Harry Percy rode north with a secret
in his breast and a plot to be executed, Harry Plantagenet
took horse at nightfall and rode south, with a secret and a
plot of far merrier complexion.

It was four in the morning and pitch-dark, and already
in an inn-yard at Rochester the sleepy carriers were shuffling
about with lanterns and harnessing their horses. Gadshill,

126 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the highwayman, who had slept in the house, was astir too,
and soon enough to learn from the chamber- man of the inn
(an accomplice) that in the party just setting forth was a
franklin, or yeoman, from the weald of Kent with three
hundred marks worth of gold* about him. "I heard him
tell it to one of his company last night at supper. They
are up already and calling for eggs and butter ; they will
away presently."

Gadshill smacked his lips. This was no ordinary piece
of business, and he could not hang for a job in which, for
sport's sake, no less a personage than the Prince of Wales
was "gracing the profession," as he put it. To-night he
was in league with no sixpenny rascals, but with the
"nobility and tranquillity." So he saddled his nag with a
quiet mind, and ambled off to Gadshill, where the Prince,
Poins, and Falstaff were already at the rendezvous beside
the dark highway. Poins had taken advantage of the dark
ness to untether FalstafFs horse, and tie him up at a little
distance ; and the fat knight was fuming up and down in
search of him, while the other two lay a few paces off and
shook with laughter. " Eight yards of uneven ground is
threescore and ten miles afoot with me," he groaned, as he
waddled to and fro ; " and the stony-hearted villains know
it well enough. A plague upon it when thieves cannot be
true to one another !" At length they whistled from their
hiding-place. " Plague on you ! Give me my horse, you
rogues ; give me my horse, and be hanged to you !"

" Keep quiet, you fat paunch !" whispered the Prince.
" Lie down, lay your ear to the ground, and listen if you can
hear the tread of travellers."

" Lie down ? Have you any levers to lift me up again
if I do ? Good Prince Hal," he wheedled, " help me to my
horse, good King's son ! Treatment like this, when a jest
is so forward, and afoot too ! I hate it."

Just then Gadshill arrived with Bardolph and Peto, two
* £200.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 127

fellow-plotters he had picked up on the way. " On with
your masks, quick ! There's money a little way behind us,
and now coming down the hill !"

The Prince made haste, and divided his company on the
plan arranged. Gadshill, Bardolph, Peto, and Falstaff
were to waylay the travellers close by in the narrow lane.
The Prince himself and Poins would take their stand a
little farther down the hill, and pounce upon any who
escaped.

" How many be there of them ?" asked Peto.

" Some eight or ten," Gadshill reported.

" 'Zounds !" Falstaff's voice had dismay in it. " Won't
they rob us ?"

But the footsteps were close by this time, and with a
whispered word or two Prince Harry and Poins slipped off
to their place of ambush.

Along came the unsuspecting travellers. They had
finished the toilsome ascent, and were giving their horses
over to the boy to lead down the hill while they stretched
their legs, when out sprang our rascals from behind a
thicket. " Strike !" bellowed Sir John. " Down with them !
Cut the villains' throats ! Ah, you caterpillars, you bacon-
fed knaves ! They hate us young fellows ; down with them !
fleece them !"

The poor travellers, thrown into confusion, and crying
helplessly, were quickly robbed and secured. " Hang ye,
you fat-bellied knaves ! Young men must live !" panted
Falstaff, while this was doing. The four seated themselves
by the road to divide their spoil before taking horse. " If
the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards there's no
equity stirring. There's no more valour in that Poins than
in a wild-duck !"

"Your money!" shouted a voice behind his shoulder.
"Villains!"

They scrambled to their feet in the darkness. Gadshill,
Bardolph, Peto broke away and ran for their lives ; and

128 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Falstaff, after a blow or two, took to his heels also, leaving
the booty scattered on the ground. The Prince and Poins
— for these and no other were the assailants — flung them
selves down and laughed until they were tired. Still shaking
with laughter at the thought of the dismayed four now
running at the sound of each other's footsteps — each taking
the other in the darkness for a constable — of Falstaff
especially, larding the earth with sweat as he shuffled along,
the pair gathered up their gains, climbed into saddle, and
galloped away merrily towards London.

But the cream of the jest, they promised themselves, was
to come when FalstafF should make his appearance next
evening in Eastcheap, where Poins had ordered supper at
the Boar's Head. The Prince and Poins were there early,
you may be sure, and whiled away the time at the expense
of Francis, a distracted waiter, whom the Prince held in
talk, while Poins played the impatient customer, and kept
bawling "Francis!" from the next room. "Francis!
Francis !" " Coming, sir ! Coming !" By this simple
game they managed to drive the poor fellow half out of his
wits before letting him go.

The Prince flung himself into a chair. " Men take their
pleasures differently. Now I am not yet of that fellow
Hotspur's mind — he that kills me some six or seven dozen
Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife,
' Fie upon this quiet life ! I want work.' ' My sweet
Harry/ says she, ' how many hast thou killed to-day ?'
' Give my roan horse a drench,' says he ; and answers,
' Some fourteen,' an hour after ; ' a trifle, a trifle.' "

But here the door opened, and in walked Falstaff, Gads-
hill, Bardolph, and Peto, with the waiter at their heels
carrying wine. All four were footsore and sulky, and
Falstaff merely growled when Poins bade him welcome.
" A plague of all cowards, I say, and amen to it ! Give me
a cup of sack, boy. A plague of all cowards !" He affected
to disregard the Prince and Poins and their greetings.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 129

" Pah ! this sack has been doctored too ; there is nothing
but roguery to be found in villainous man ; yet a coward is
worse than doctored sack. Go thy ways, old Jack ; die
when thou wilt, for manhood, good manhood, is forgot upon
the face of the earth. There live not three good men un
hanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows old.
A bad world, I say. A plague of all cowards, I say still."

" How now, wool-sack ?" demanded Prince Harry.
" What are you muttering ?"

" A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom
with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee
like a flock of wild-geese, I'll never wear hair on my face
more. You Prince of Wales !"

" Why what's the matter, you round man ?"

" Are you not a coward ? answer me that : and Poins
there ?"

" 'Zounds," threatened Poins, " call me coward again,
and I put a knife into your fat paunch."

" I call thee coward ? I'll see thee further ere I call thee
a coward ; but I would give a thousand pounds if I could
run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the
shoulders, you care not who sees your back. Call you that
backing of your friends ? A plague on such backing ! Give
me a cup of sack." FalstafF drained another cup. " A plague
of all cowards, still say I."

" What's the matter ?" asked the Prince again.

" What's the matter ! There be four of us here have
taken a thousand pounds this very morning."

" Where is it, Jack ? Where is it ?"

" Where is it ? Taken from us it is : a hundred upon
poor four of us."

" What, a hundred, man ?"

" I am a rogue if I was not at close quarters with a dozen
of them two hours together. 'Twas a miracle I escaped.
I was eight times thrust through the doublet, four through
the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; my sword

9

130 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

hacked like an hand-saw—look for yourself ! I never fought
better since I was a man ; but all no good. A plague of all
cowards !" ,

The Prince, in mock bewilderment, appealed to the others
to tell their story, and all together plunged into the outrageous
concocted tale. " We four set upon some dozen— ' "Six
teen at least." " And bound them." " No, they were not
bound." "Yes, they were bound, every man of them, or
I'm a Hebrew Jew." "As we were sharing some six or

seven fresh men set upon us " " And unbound all the

rest, and on they all came." " If I fought not with fifty of
them, I'm a bunch of radish."

" Dear, dear "—the Prince kept a serious face — " pray
Heaven you have not murdered some of them !"

" Nay, that's past praying for. Two I am sure I have
paid, two rogues in buckram suits. See here, Hal" — Fal-
staff struck an attitude— "thou knowest my old guard;
well, I took it — so. Four rogues in buckram let drive at
me "

" What, four ? Thou saidst two a moment ago."

" Four, Hal ; I told thee four. These four assailed me in
front, thrusting at me. I made no more ado, but took all
their seven points in my buckler, thus."

" Seven ? Why just now there were but four."

"In buckram?"

" That was it ; four, in buckram suits."

" Seven, by my sword-hilt, or else I am a villain."

" Let him alone," whispered Poins; " we shall have more
presently."

" Dost thou hear me, Hal ? That's right, for it is worth
the listening to. These nine men in buckram that I told
thee of—

The Prince whistled softly. " Two more already !"

" Their points being broken, began to give me ground. I
followed close, came in foot and hand; and as quick as
thought paid out seven of the eleven !"

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 131

" Monstrous !" groaned Harry. " Eleven buckram men
out of two !"

"But, as the devil would have it," went on Falstaff,
" three accursed fellows in coats of Kendal green came at
my back and let drive at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that
thou couldst not see thy hand "

"Well, of all the lies!"

" Eh ? What ? Art thou mad ? Is not the truth the
truth?"

" Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green,
when thou sayst it was too dark to see thy hand ? Come,
explain, pray." And Poins joined in, " Explain, Jack,
explain."

" What, upon compulsion ! Tell you on compulsion ! Give
you a reason on .compulsion ! If reasons were as plentiful
as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon com
pulsion — not I !"

"Enough of this," said the Prince; "and now listen to
me. We two — Poins and I — saw you four set upon four
travellers, and bind them, and make yourselves masters of
their wealth. Mark, now, how a plain tale shall put you
down. Then we two did set on you four, and, with a word,
outbraved you and took your booty ; ay, and have it. We
can show it to you here in the house. Why, Falstaff, you
carried your fat paunch away and roared while you ran as
lustily as ever I heard bull-calf. And you hack your sword
like that, and say it was done in fight ! Come, what trick
can you find now to cover your shame ?"

" Ay, Jack," echoed Poins, " what trick can you find now ?"

Sir John stood abashed for just a moment ; then a twinkle
showed in a corner of his eye, and spread slowly over his fat
features.

" By the Lord, I knew ye all the time ! Why, hear you,
my masters, was it for me to kill the heir-apparent ? Should
I turn upon a true Prince ? Why, thou knowest I am as
valiant as Hercules ; but beware instinct ! The lion will

9—2

132 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

not touch the true Prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I
was a coward upon instinct. I shall think the better of
myself and thee during my life ! But, lads, I am glad you
have the money. Shut the doors, hostess !"

But the hostess had a word of her own to say. " There
was a nobleman of the Court at the door would speak with
the Prince."

" Give him money and send him packing," said the Prince,
not willing to be interrupted.

Falstaff offered to take him an answer, and while he was
gone Bardolph and the others confessed how the knight had
hacked his sword with his dagger, and persuaded them to
tickle their noses with spear-grass, and make them bleed,
and smear their clothes with the blood, to make believe it
was all done in fight.

But Falstaff came back with serious news. The Prince
hailed him lightly. " Well, how now, fat Jack ? How long
is't ago since thou sawest thine own knee?" " My own knee ?
When I was about thy years, Hal, an eagle's talons would
have met round my waist. I could have crept through an
alderman's thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief ! it
blows a man up like a bladder. But there's villainous news
abroad. That was Sir John Bracy, sent by your father ;
you must go to the Court in the morning. That mad Percy
of the north, and that wizard-fellow of Wales, Owen Glen-
dower, and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumber
land, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that never
runs away—

" Unless upon instinct, Jack."

" I grant ye, upon instinct. Well these, and one Mordake,
and a thousand blue bonnets more, are up in arms. Wor
cester has stolen away to-night ; thy father's beard is turned
white with the news, and you may buy land now as cheap
as stinking mackerel. Tell me, Hal, art thou not horribly
afraid ? Could the world choose for thee, as heir-apparent,
three worse enemies than Douglas, Percy, and Glendower ?"

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 138

" Afraid ? Not a whit, Jack ; I lack some of thy instinct"

" Well, well ; thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow, when
thy father gives thee a talking-to. If thou lovest me, prac
tise an answer."

Upon this, though the news was serious and the time
short, Prince Harry could not resist setting the fat Knight
in a chair to represent the King, and rehearsing to morrow's
scene with him in mockery ; and afterwards taking the
King's seat himself and rating the corpulent old man as a
headstrong youth, rebuking him especially with his fond
ness for that hoary old reprobate, Sir John Falstaff. While
the two were at this game a second knocking sounded on
the outer door, and the hostess came running to say that the
sheriff and watch were without, demanding to search the
house. Guessing what brought them, the Prince cleared
the room and had just time to stow Sir John behind the
arras hangings before the sheriff appeared with the robbed
carrier.

" Pardon me, my lord," explained the sheriff, recognizing
the Prince, " but a hue and cry has followed certain men to
this house."

" What men ?"

" One of them, my gracious lord, is a notorious character
— a gross, fat man."

" Ha ! I know whom you mean. He is not here, but I
will engage he shall call upon you by to-morrow dinner
time, and answer any charge you may bring."

" There are two gentlemen, my lord, who have lost three
hundred marks in this robbery."

" That may be. If he have robbed them, he shall be
answerable "; and so with compliments the Prince bowed
the sheriff out.

But when he and Peto, the coast being clear, pulled aside
the arras, they found Sir John with his double chin sunk on
his chest. Tired out with his last night's exertions he had
dropped sound asleep. " Search his pockets," whispered

134 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the Prince ; but Peto could find no money— only a tavern

bill which read :

s. d.
Item, A capon . . . . . .22

Hem, Sauce . . . • .04

Hem, Sack, 2 gallons 58

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper . 2 6
Item, Bread . . ' . ... . . o o£

" O monstrous ! but one half-pennyworth of bread to this
intolerable deal of sack !" The Prince looked down on the
stertorous sleeper. " Let him snore on. It is late, and I
must to Court in the morning. The money stolen must be
paid back with interest. We must to the wars now, and I'll
procure this fat rogue a charge of foot-soldiers ; I know the
marching will be the death of him. Good morrow, Peto,"
and Prince Harry stepped out into the cold dawn.

In truth the serious summons had come for him. Hotspur
had prospered in the affair which took him north. Douglas
had readily joined the conspiracy. Northumberland had no
difficulty in persuading the Archbishop of York, who com
mended not only the attempt but the plan of campaign.
And Glendower needed no persuasion, being already in active
rebellion against the King. By the Archbishop's advice a
paper was drawn up stating the several grounds which
justified the revolt, and copies of this were secretly sent here
and there throughout England to those barons whose affec
tion for Henry stood in doubt. Many returned promises of
help ; though it may be said here that their promises did not
amount to much on the day of trial. And indeed the con
spiracy held grave elements of weakness. It had no roots
in popular feeling ; for the people as a whole looked upon the
King as their friend, and justly ; and read plainly enough in
this revolt the jealousy and disappointment of a few big
nobles. Nor was it knit together by a common purpose.
Northumberland lagged behind his son, considering how he

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 185

might save himself in case of failure. Douglas and Glen-
dower had quite different aims ; and Glendower especially
was about the last man in the world Hotspur could under
stand.

Hotspur worked hard, and for a while his impetuosity
carried the movement along. His plans laid, he set out for
Wales ; and his wife (who had pleaded vainlv to be taken
into his confidence) followed him to Bangor, where she met
her brother Mortimer and his newly-wedded Welsh wife in
company with Glendowef and his wild troops. Worcester,
too, had arrived. But from the first it was clear that
Hotspur and Glendower could neither agree nor tolerate
each other.

We know what Hotspur was — a blunt, headstrong, prac
tical soldier, impatient of speech and curt, almost brutal, of
manner even towards his own wife. Glendower was a fighter
too, but he was also a chieftain over a wild and superstitious
race ; a dreamer and a visionary ; gentle towards women ;
insanely proud of his barbaric sovereignty, and touchy at
the least suspicion of ridicule ; a romantic and dignified
savage thinly varnished by his youthful training in the
English Court.

So when the leaders met in council at the Archdeacon of
Bangor's house, and began, with the map between them, to
parcel out the realm of England, the first compliments were
scarcely exchanged before Hotspur and Glendower began
(as we say) to rub each other's temper the wrong way.

" Be seated, cousin Percy," Glendower began graciously;
" or let me say cousin Hotspur, for when our enemy Lan
caster hears tell of you by that name he turns pale and
wishes you in heaven."

" And you in hell whenever he hears of Owen Glen
dower." Hotspur bettered the compliment with a brusque
laugh.

But Glendower took it quite seriously. " I cannot blame
him ; at my nativity the heavens were full of blazing stars.

136 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

and the whole frame and foundation of the earth quaked at
my birth."

" Why so it would have done at the same season if your
mother's cat had but kittened, though you had never been
born."

"I say," repeated Glendower solemnly, "that the earth
shook when I was born."

" Did it ? Then I say that the earth couldn't have been
of my mind, if it shook for fear of you."

" The heavens were on fire ; the earth trembled."

" Oh, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire ;
that explains it. The earth suffers from those spasms at
times."

" Cousin," Glendower reproved him, " I do not permit
many to cross me as you are doing." And having no spark
of humour, he went on to adduce further proof that he was
no ordinary man.

" I think no man speaks better Welsh." Hotspur soon
had enough of this. " I'll to dinner."

" Peace, cousin," put in Mortimer, " or you will drive him
mad."

" I can call spirits out of the deep," still went on the
sonorous Glendower.

" Why so can I ; so can any man. The question is if
they'll come when you call them."

" I can teach you to command the devil himself."

" And / can teach you how to shame him. Tell the truth
and shame the devil — that's the way, cousin."

" Thrice hath Henry Bolingbroke made head against me;
thrice from the banks of Wye and Severn have I beaten
him home bootless and weather-beaten."

" Home without boots, and in foul weather ! How in the
world escapes he the ague 1"

Clearly Hotspur in this mood was intractable. Even
Glendower saw this at length, and picked up the map
sullenly. The Archdeacon of Bangor had divided off the

KING HENRY THE FOURTH IS?

future realms of the three parties in the revolt. To the
Mortimers, as true heirs to the throne, fell the whole of
England south of Trent and east of Severn. The Percies
took the north of England from Trent to the Scottish border,
and Glendower his native Wales. But Hotspur was now
in a temper to pick holes in any arrangement. " It seems
to me you have given me the smallest of the portions ; look
at this river here, this Trent, winding into the best of my
territory, and cutting out a huge slice. I'll have the current
dammed up here, and cut a straight channel across. It
shall not wind so."

" Not wind ?" cried Glendower. " But it shall, it must;
you see that it does."

" Then I'll see that it shall not ; it shall run straight."

Mortimer showed that another bend of the river gave Hot
spur back as much as the first took from him. Worcester
pointed out how a little engineering would make the channel
straight. Glendower would not hear of any alteration.
" Pray who will deny me ?" demanded Hotspur. " I will."
" Then you had better say it in Welsh, so that I shall not
understand you." " I can speak English, my lord, as well
as you. Yes, and I learnt in the English Court to turn
many an English song to the harp, and give a new orna
ment to your language ; an accomplishment which I believe
you never possessed." " No, I'm glad to say, I'd rather be
a kitten and cry ' mew !' than be one of your ballad-
mongers." Glendower gave him up in despair. " Very
well, you shall have Trent turned." " Oh, as for that I don't
care ; I'd give thrice so much land to any friend who de
served it ; but when a man starts to bargain with me, look
you, I'll dispute to the ninth part of a hair."

The compact was given into the secretary's hands, and
Glendower withdrew with dignity, while the two others
expostulated with Hotspur for so crossing the worthy
gentleman. " I cannot help it," Hotspur protested ; " he
wearies and vexes me so with his lore and his crack-brained

138 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

pretensions. He's worse than a smoky house." " And yet,
let me tell you," said Mortimer, " my father-in-law has a
real respect for you, and curbs himself when you cross his
humour as he would for no other man in- the world."
" Well, well, I am schooled," said Hotspur, and bore him
self good-humouredly enough until the moment of departure
—hours spent in that peaceful happiness which made home
so dear to Glendower, and was enjoyed by him so rarely.
It was small wonder that Mortimer had fallen in love with
his captor's daughter, and was loath now to leave his Welsh
wife, whose language was strange to him, as his was to her,
but who loved him and spoke it with tearful eyes while she
sang him the soft songs of her native land, and he, laid on
the rushes with his head on her lap, looked up and forgot
for a while that the campaign called him and the moments
were running away towards his departure. Even Hotspur,
that hater of ballads and scorner of sentiment, was less
brutal than his wont in announcing that the time was come
to take leave.

We left Prince Harry on his way to answer his father's
summons. The King wished to speak with him alone, for
he read the anger of Heaven in the reports which reached
him of his eldest son's misconduct, and fully believed that
in this was laid up the punishment for his own past wrong
doing. " My father," said the Prince, " I would I could
redeem all my offences as thoroughly as I can prove myself
guiltless of many charged against me. But let me beg this,
that if I disprove many falsehoods brought to your Majesty's
ear by smiling but envious tattlers, I may in return for some
youthful faults which I have indeed committed find pardon
on making a clean breast."

" May God pardon thee, Harry ! It is for me to wonder
how my son can so differ from his father and all his blood.
Struck out of the Council— thy place there given to thy
younger brother Clarence— all but an alien to my Court and

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 139

thy kindred of the blood ! — What wonder that men think
upon what they hoped and expected of thee before now, and
shake their heads prophetically ? Had I made myself cheap
as thou, should I ever have won the crown ? No ; I hus
banded myself, went abroad rarely, and when I did people
would point and say, ' This is he !' or ask, ' Where ? Which
is Bolingbroke ?' And with this I used such courtesy as won
their allegiance, so that they raised cheers for me even in the
King's presence. It was Richard, that skipping fellow, that
made himself cheap and familiar ; ambling up and down
with shallow companions, laughing and sporting until the
public eye grew utterly tired of him. And thou, Harry,
art running the same gait. Not an eye but is aweary
of thee" — the King sighed — "save mine, which hath
yearned to see thee more ; which even now does what I
would not have it do, and grows dim with a foolish tender
ness."

" My gracious lord," promised Harry, "from this time I
will be more myself." But the King had more on his mind.
That his son should be so different from Hotspur — there lay
the wound which gnawed him — that he should be driven to
envy this foe, and acknowledge him at every point superior
to his own Harry, his nearest and dearest enemy. And in
his bitterness he uttered a taunt equally cruel and unjust.
" I could believe thou art base enough, degenerate enough,
through fear of him or pettish wrath against me, to take
Percy's pay and fall in at his heels to fight against me !"

" Do not think that !" cried Harry, shocked and indignant.
" You shall not find it so ; and God forgive those who have
so warped your Majesty's good thoughts from me ! There
shall come yet the close of a day when, wiping off the blood
of battle and with it my past disgrace, I shall be bold to tell
you I am your son. And that day shall be when this much-
lauded Hotspur and your poorly-thought-of Harry come
face to face. Before God, sir, he shall render me up all my
lost honours, if I have to tear the reckoning from his heart.

140 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Trust me this once, and I will die every death before break
ing this vow !"

" I will trust thee," said the King slowly.

And the hour for proving that trust was at hand. While
father and son still looked each other in the face, Sir Walter
Blunt arrived with the news that Douglas and Percy had
already joined forces at Shrewsbury. Glendower would be
following, and old Northumberland might be despatching
reinforcements at any moment. The Earl of Westmoreland
and young Prince John of Lancaster were already moving
northward upon the rebels. " On Wednesday, Harry, you
shall set forward ; we ourselves the day after. Let your line
of march be through Gloucestershire, and in twelve days'
time we should meet and join at Bridgenorth." Smarting
from this interview, but flushed now with a new resolve,
Harry hurried off to prepare for the campaign.

In his preparations he did not forget his old promise to
provide Falstaff with a command of foot. That worthy just
now was in a melancholy humour, but doing his best to work
it off by railing at Bardolph's red nose, a feature which did
much service by engaging his attention in hours of slackness
or despondency. The images — biblical and other — called up
by it, the trains of thought suggested by it, were endless.
"Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the
poop. . . . When thou rannest up Gadshill in the night to
catch my horse, if I did not take thee for a will-o'-the-wisp
or a ball of wildfire there's no purchase in money. . . .
Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches,
walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern ;
but what thou hast drunk would have bought me lights as
cheap in the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have main
tained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-
and-thirty years, Heaven reward me for it !" Sir John's
commentary was peculiarly rich and pungent to-day ; the
fact (as he asserted) being that during his sleep he had been
robbed of several valuable bonds and a seal-ring belonging

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 141

to his grandfather. This charge against the credit of her
house Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head, shrilly
resented, and the dispute was hot when the Prince arrived
and proved the robbery to have been but a few unpaid
tavern-bills. As for the money taken from the travellers, it
had been paid back. "Ah!" quoth Sir John, not in the
least out of countenance ; " I do not like that paying back ;
'tis a double labour." But the Prince was in earnest now.
Sir John must attend in the Temple Hall to-morrow to
receive his commission and money for his equipment.
Bardolph must set out with a letter for Prince John of Lan
caster. " To horse, Peto ; thou and I have thirty miles yet
to ride ere dinner-time." These tavern loafers took fire from
him ; their marching orders had come, and in a day or two
they with their betters had left London and were pressing
northward to Shrewsbury.

At Shrewsbury in the rebel camp all was not prospering.
Hotspur and Douglas had met in good fighting trim, but
Glendower had not arrived and, worse still, Northumber
land, whose name and influence in the north meant every
thing to their cause, was either sick or feigning sickness, and
marched southward slowly, sending messages that his
coming must not be relied on. " A bad time to be taken
sick," grumbled Worcester. " His health was never so
valuable as it is just now." Hotspur, for a moment de
pressed by the news, quickly recovered his spirits. It would
be no bad thing in case of mishap to have a second force to
fall back upon. Worcester shook his head ; the great Percy's
hesitation would have a moral effect — men would begin to
doubt and question. Hotspur and Douglas alike scorned the
notion of fear; and a report that the royal forces were
approaching set the former on fire with impatience. Hap
piest of all was he to hear that the Prince of Wales was
coming ; for in truth, and for some time, these two Harrys
had felt themselves to be rivals. Harry Percy might talk
disdainfully, but the feeling was there Harry, Prince of

142 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Wales, might listen to the other's praises with affected care
lessness, but he had not been too careless to mark and
remember even what kind of horse Hotspur rode. While
men contrasted them, fate whispered to each of a day which
should finally decide between them— " Harry to Harry, hot
horse to horse."

So while Glendower tarried and Northumberland sent
malingering messages, the royal troops pressed on towards
Bridgenorth. It was lucky for his Majesty that his army
contained few companies such as Falstaff's. Sir John had
not left London too soon. The tale of the robbery on
Gadshill had come to the ears of the Lord Chief-Justice
Gascoigne, who was not a man to show favour to any friend
of the Prince, or even to the Prince himself. It had been
his duty before now to sentence Bardolph to imprisonment
for a riot committed in the Prince's company, and Harry,
being in court when the sentence was delivered, had so far
forgotten himself as to draw his sword; whereupon the
judge had promptly committed him to the King's Bench.

Falstaff, who had been reported as concerned in the
Gadshill robbery, had to thank the confusion of the times
rather than any weakness of Lord Chief-Justice Gascoigne
that he was still free to abuse the King's confidence. And
he abused it royally. Being licensed to " press " soldiers in
the King's service, he had taken care to lay hands only on
passably rich fellows — yeomen's sons, well-to-do bridegrooms
on the eve of marriage, and the like — in fact anyone who
seemed pretty sure to pay a round sum to escape serving.
And with the money thus gotten he had hired in their place
such a crew of scarecrows that he was fairly ashamed to
march them through the streets of Coventry. " The villains,"
he growled, " march so wide between the legs as if they had
fetters on ; for indeed I had the most of 'em out of prison.
There's but a shirt and a half in all my company ; and the
half-shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over
the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves ; and the

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 143

shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at St. Albans,
or else from the red-nosed innkeeper of Daventry. But,"
he consoled himself, " that's all one ; they'll find linen on
every hedge. And as for the fellows themselves, they'll
serve as food for powder ; they'll fill a pit as well as their
betters. Tush ! mortal men, mortal men !"

The Prince, in whose army these rapscallions marched,
joined the King at Bridgenorth, and the combined armies
marched forward on Shrewsbury and halted within sight of
the rebel forces.

Still Northumberland hung back, and Glendower tarried
on the Welsh border. But although he knew himself out
numbered, although Worcester and even Douglas counselled
delay, Hotspur was for prompt attack Always a fierce
fighter, in this crisis he showed himself an indifferent
general. He had, however, a true general's power of
swaying men, which he used now to override opposition ;
and when the King sent Sir Walter Blunt to offer generous
terms, he returned the insulting message that he and his
house had proved the King's promises before and knew
what they were worth. Yet on an afterthought he promised
that the King's offer should be considered, and that
Worcester should bring a cooler answer on the morrow.

The morrow had scarcely dawned when Worcester with
Sir Richard Vernon by his side, rode into the royal camp
for this last interview. The day was that before the feast
of St. Mary Magdalen, and the month July, but the newly
risen sun hung red and angry in a cheerless sky, and a
whistling south wind gave promise of stormy weather.

In the King's presence Worcester rehearsed once more
his old tale of the promises given to the house of Percy
and unfulfilled. Prince Harry, standing beside his father,
listened with impatience, and at the close of the recital
stepped forward and offered to save unnecessary bloodshed
and decide the quarrel between their two houses by single
combat with Hotspur, to whose admitted prowess he paid

144 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

many courtly compliments. This gallant proposal was of
course not to be thought of ; but the King, still clemently
minded, again offered the rebels pardon if they would sur
render, and a free inquiry into their grievances with a view
to redress.

Vernon was for reporting this offer to Hotspur, but
Worcester, morose and distrustful as ever, turned it over in
his mind and decided that the King was not to be relied on :
he would merely bide his time and find another occasion to
strike. Hotspur's trespass might be forgotten for the sake
of his youth and notoriously choleric temper ; but his
elders, who had spurred him on, would one day surely be
made to pay for it. Thus reasoning, Worcester took a
decision as fatal as it was dishonest, and returning to
Hotspur and Douglas not only said nothing of the King's
offer, but so misreported him as to throw his nephew into
a new rage. One thing only he related truthfully, the
Prince of Wales's challenge ; and Vernon, not relishing the
deceit which he was abetting, found some consolation in
bearing witness to the courtesy with which that challenge had
been uttered. " Courteous, was he ?" answered Hotspur.
" I hope before night to embrace him so with a soldier's arm
that he will find himself- shrinking under my courtesy."
Without delay he set his battle in order, and with the
famous cry of his house, " Esperance ! Percy !" led them
forward to the attack.

After a murderous exchange of archery, the two armies
joined, and in the first shock Douglas with his Scots forced
back the King's van, led by the Earl of Stafford, and very
nearly broke their array. Distressed by a storm of arrows
and harassed in flank by irregular bodies of Welshmen who
had been lurking in the wooded hills and marshes and now
came to the rebels' support, the Earl's men were wavering
when Henry came up and relieved them with his main
body. Now from the nature of the quarrel it had been
foreseen that the rebels might direct their attack specially

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 145

against the King's person and to baffle this no less than
four knights had taken the field that day in armour precisely
like the King's. Two of these, the Earl of Stafford himself
and Sir Walter Blunt, were cut down by Douglas in two
separate onsets which carried to the very foot of the royal
standard ; and finding himself twice cheated, the Scot
swore to cut his way through the King's wardrobe piece
by piece until he found the real Henry, and to this vow our
friend Falstaff no doubt owed his life. For, encountering
with Douglas, and finding himself in peril of being spitted,
this hero flung himself on the ground and shammed dead.
It was not easy in any circumstances to mistake Falstaff
for the King of England in disguise, and without pausing
to make sure Douglas hurried forward in pursuit of higher
game.

As we know, it was no light matter for Falstaff, once
prostrate, to get on his legs again. On this occasion he
was in no great haste to try, and so it happened that,
stretched where he had fallen, he was witness of the
encounter between the pair who had been seeking each
other since first the battle joined.

Prince Harry had been fighting nobly. Early in the day
an arrow had wounded him in the face, and his father,
himself withdrawn from the hottest of the fight only by the
vehement entreaties of the Earl of March, had vainly
implored him to retire and have his wound dressed. To
this he would not listen, and it was on the ground from
which he had already beaten off an onslaught of Douglas
upon his father that he and Hotspur at length came face to
face.

" Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere." They
fought, knowing that for one or the other his hour had come.
And it was Hotspur, the formidable, the approved soldier,
who fell. It was Prince Hal, the reputedly worthless, who
stooped and laid his scarf respectfully over the face of his
dead rival— so often envied ! As he did so he turned and

10

146 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

spied Falstaff. " What ? Thou too, old acquaintance !
Farewell, old Jack ! I could better have spared a better
man. Lie there by Percy until I return and see thee duly
embowelled and buried !"

Falstaff watched him out of sight, and slowly heaved him
self on his feet. " Embowelled ! If thou embowel me to
day, I'll give thee leave to powder and eat me too to-morrow.
Phew ! It was time to counterfeit, or that hot, termagant
Scot had paid me scot and lot too. The better part of
valour is discretion, say I." He waddled over to Hotspur's
corpse, and giving it a thrust or two with his dagger to
make sure, hoisted it on his back.

By this time the rebel bugles were sounding retreat.
Lacking Hotspur to put heart in them, their ranks were
breaking, and the day was already won when Prince Harry
and his brother, John of Lancaster, met the fat Knight
staggering along under his burden. The Prince could
hardly believe his eyes, or his ears either, when Falstaff cast
the body on the ground and complacently claimed that he
and no other had killed Hotspur. "There is Percy. If
your father will do me any honour, well and good ; if not,
let him kill the next Percy himself."

" Why, I killed Percy with my own hand, and I saw thee
dead !"

" Didst thou indeed ? Lord, Lord, how this world is
given to lying ! I grant you I was down and out of breath,
and so was he. But we rose both at an instant, and fought
a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. See you this wound in
his thigh !"

" Make the most of thy falsehood, if it do thee any good."
The Prince had no time to waste in such disputing. The
victory was now assured, the rebellion broken up. Douglas,
chased from the field and spurring his horse at a desperate
crag, was flung heavily and taken prisoner. Him the King
pardoned without ransom at Harry's entreaty. Worcester
and Vernon, captives too, he condemned to execution.

PRINCE HARRY AND HOTSPUR AT THE BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY.
(From a print in the Boydell collection after Francis Rigaud, R.A.)

10 — 2

148 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" Hadst thou borne back our true message of grace, many
a gallant man now dead had been drawing life this hour."
They were led forth, and the King, despatching his son
John and the Earl of Westmoreland towards York to deal
with Northumberland and the Archbishop, directed his own
march upon Wales to complete his victory.

II

In the orchard of Warkworth Castle, on the banks of the
Coquet and handy by the sea, the old Earl of Northumber
land paced to and fro, waiting for news of the battle he had
been too " crafty-sick " to attend. And along the roads
between Shrewsbury and Warkworth more than one horse
man was spurring with rumours caught up in quiet towns
far from the battle-field.

The first of these tired riders to dismount at the castle
gate was Lord Bardolph, one of the heads of the conspiracy.
Northumberland tottered out to learn the news.

" Certain news !" announced Lord Bardolph, " and as
good as heart can wish ! The King defeated and wounded
almost to death, the Prince of Wales slain outright by your
son, both the Blunts dead, and young Prince John, West
moreland, and Stafford fled from the field! Never since
Caesar's time was day so fought, so followed up, and so
fairly won !"

" But whence have you this ? From Shrewsbury ? Saw
you the field ?"

" I had it, my lord, from a gentleman who w.as there and
saw ; one of birth and name, who can be trusted."

While Lord Bardolph spoke another rider appeared on
the crest of the road.

" Here comes Travers," cried the Earl, " my servant
whom I sent last Tuesday to seek news."

" I overtook him, my lord, and rode on ahead ; he can
bring no certain news but what I gave him."

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 149

But Travers had something more to tell. " My lord," he
panted, dismounting, " Lord Bardolph turned me back with
the joyful tidings and outrode me, being better horsed. But
after him came spurring a gentleman on a horse over-ridden
and lathered with blood. He reined up and asked the way
to Chester ; and I demanded what news from Shrewsbury.
He answered that the rebellion had bad luck, and young
Harry Percy's spur was cold. That is how he said it, and
with that gave his horse the head and striking spur again
left me at a furious gallop."

" What ! tell it me again. How said he ? — that Hotspur's
spur was cold, the rebellion had ill luck ?"

"My lord," insisted Lord Bardolph, "I'll wager my
barony his story was false !"

But the Earl was not convinced, and presently a third
horseman hove in sight. It was Morton, another retainer
of the Percy ; and his face told that his tidings were evil.
He had escaped from Shrewsbury, he reported. The Earl
forestalled more with a trembling string of questions, which
Morton's white face answered only too surely. " Yes, the
Douglas was living, and the Earl's brother — as yet ; but as

for my lord's son " " Why, he is dead. Ah, I guessed

it, I know it ! Yet speak, Morton, and tell me my son is
not dead !" " I cannot think he is dead, my lord," said Lord
Bardolph.

But Morton had to answer that it was true. " Sorry am
I to force you, my lord, to believe that which I would to
God these eyes had not seen. But he is dead, slain by
Prince Harry, and his death disheartened the troops and
turned the day. Worcester fell a prisoner in the flight,
Douglas was thrown from his horse and taken. In short,
the victory was the King's, who has already despatched a
force under Prince John and Westmoreland against your
lordship."

Such in sum was the news, not to be doubted. And now
the unhappy Earl, who had tarried and feigned illness when

150 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

he could have saved everything, awoke to his loss and fling
ing his crutch away in a weak passion, called too late for
his armour, and too late took heaven and earth to witness
that he would be avenged. His listeners, who knew too
well what his conduct had cost, yet reasoned with him that
nothing could be gained while yet more might be hazarded
by this outburst. The mischief at Shrewsbury was done ; it
remained for men who had counted the risks of rebellion
beforehand to accept that reverse and put forth new efforts
elsewhere. The Archbishop of York was up, with a strong
army ; and the rising which before had been in men's eyes a
rebellion only, now had the sanction of religion to avenge
the death of Richard, whose blood had been scraped from
the stones of Pomfret Castle to incite the people. Let the
Earl and the Archbishop join forces boldly and all might
yet be redeemed.

From Warkworth Lord Bardolph posted south to York,
where the Archbishop sat deliberating with Lord Hastings
and Lord Mowbray. These had ready a picked force of
twenty-five thousand men, and they had to consider if such
a force could hold head without Northumberland's aid.
With that aid they could feel reasonably safe, but Lord
Bardolph knew too well to trust the Earl's energy. They
were (he argued) planning a big enterprise, and ought to
count the cost carefully, and be certain their means were
equal to it. Hastings was more sanguine ; the King, to be
sure, had more than five-and- twenty thousand men, but his
power must be divided against three separate dangers —
against Glendower, against the French (who had landed
twelve thousand men at Milford Haven in Wales), and
lastly against this new revolt should they determine on it.
The Archbishop decided for prompt action. " The country,''
said he, " is already sick and surfeited of this usurper. Let
us go forward boldly and proclaim everywhere what calls us
to arms !"

Meanwhile Prince Harry, whom the King had now

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 151

learned to trust with the command of men, was pressing
back the Welshmen ; and it is enough to say here that by
slow and careful campaigns, lasting over four years, during
which he learned the art of soldiery and a scorn of hardships
which was to stand him in good stead hereafter, Harry
wrested the south of Wales from Glendower, and drove him
back into the mountain fastnesses around Snowdon, there to
maintain a stubborn and almost single-handed fight until
his death.

But this was a kind of fighting which, sharp while it
lasted, had its holidays ; and now and again it gave Harry
time to revisit London. Falstaff (who was of no build for
Welsh campaigning) soon after the battle of Shrewsbury
found himself back in the old haunts, with a boy to follow
him for page (a gift from the Prince), but a purse barely
sufficient to maintain this grandeur. Somehow his tailor
fought shy of giving him credit, and demanded security;
was even unkind enough to ask for better security than
Bardolph's, which Falstaff offered. " The rascally knave !
I looked he should have sent me two-and-twenty yards of
satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security ! I
can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse ;
borrowing Dnly lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is
incurable."

So we find him back in London streets with seven groats
and twopence in his purse, and a page at heel pompously
bearing his master's sword and buckler, and openly poking
fun at his master's broad back. " I know not how 'tis,"-
Falstaff turned about on the pavement, and sticking his
thumbs in his girdle, addressed the lad reproachfully ; " but
men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me ; the brain of that
foolish clay, man, is not able to invent anything that tends
to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on me ; I
am not only witty in myself, but the cause of wit in other
men."

Who should pass along the street at this moment but the

152 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

man Sir John had best reason to avoid— Lord Chief-Justice
Gascoigne? Sir John had, indeed, been sent for by this
upright judge before marching north, to answer some awk
ward questions about the robbery on Gadshill, but had
managed to put a convenient distance between himself and
London. The victory at Shrewsbury had happened in the
interval, and the Lord Chief-Justice was disposed to let
bygones be bygones ; though, at the same time, the sight of
Falstaff suggested that a word of advice would not be out
of place. So, knowing that the fat knight was to depart
again northwards presently to join Prince John of Lancaster,
he sent his servant to call him.

Falstaff at first pretended to be deaf, and then, as the
servant plucked his sleeve, made believe to take him for a
beggar. But the judge was not to be shaken off so. " Sir
John FalstaiT, a word with you," said he gravely, walk
ing up.

Thus cornered, Falstaff could only push forward a hundred
inquiries for his lordship's health. " I am glad to see your
lordship abroad : I heard say your lordship was sick : I hope
your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though
not clean past your youth, hath yet a touch of age. I most
humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverent care of
your health."

The judge waved aside all this solicitude, and would have
begun, but Sir John was off upon another tack. " An't
please your lordship, I hear his Majesty is returned sick
from Wales. I hear it is that apoplexy again. This
apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of lethargy, an't please
your lordship ; a kind of sleeping in the blood, or pins-and-
needles, as your lordship might say. It has its origin in
much grief, in study, and worry of the brain. I have read
the cause of its effects in Galen : it is a kind of deafness."

" I think you must be suffering from it, then," said
Gascoigne drily ; " for you hear not what I say to you."

" Say rather, my lord," Falstaff answered with a broad

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 153

smile, " it is the disease of not listening that I am troubled
with."

" Well, well, sir ; I sent for you before the expedition to
Shrewsbury to answer for a robbery upon Gadshill : your
services in the wars have a little gilded over that night's
exploit, and you may thank the unquiet times that the
business was allowed to pass so quietly. But I warn you-
to let sleeping dogs lie. The truth is, you live in great
infamy, and have been a bad companion for the young
Prince."

" My lord, you that are old make no allowances for us
youngsters. We are wags, I confess, we fellows in the
prime of our youth."

" You a youngster ! you, with every mark of age on you
— a moist eye, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing
belly ; with your voice cracked, your wind short, your chin
double, your wit single, every part of you smitten with
antiquity ? And yet you call yourself young ? Fie, fie, fie,
Sir John !"

" My lord, I was born about three o'clock in the after
noon, with a white head and something of a round belly.
-For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of
anthems. The truth is, I am only old in judgment and
understanding ; and if any one will dance with me for a
thousand marks, let him lend me the money and I'm his
man. As for that box on the ear the Prince gave you, he
gave it like a rude Prince and you took it like a sensible
lord. I have rebuked him for it, and the young lion repents,
not in sackcloth, but in old sack."

" Well, the King has separated Prince Harry from you.
I hear you are going with Prince John of Lancaster against
the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland."

" Yes, and I thank your pretty sweet wit for it." Falstaff
was shrewd enough to put two and two together. " It
seems there is not a dangerous action can peep out its
head, but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last for

154 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

ever ; but it always was the trick of our English nation, if
they have a good thing, to make it too common. If you
must have it that I am an old man, you should give me
some rest. But there ! I would to Heaven my name
were not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were better to
be eaten to death with rust than scoured to nothing with
perpetual motion."

Somehow the Lord Chief -Justice felt that he was not
having the best of the encounter. He turned to walk away.
" Well, be honest, be honest ; and may your expedition
prosper."

" Will your lordship lend me a thousand pounds to
furnish me forth ?" asked Falstaff blandly.

" Not a penny, not a penny. Farewell ; commend me
to my cousin Westmoreland." The judge was off in a
hurry.

Falstaff looked after him. " Lord, how old age is given
to covetousness !" he sighed.

Indeed Sir John's purse was at a low ebb. Mistress
Quickly of the Boar's Head Tavern would give him
credit no longer, and had actually entered a suit against
him to recover what he owed. " A hundred mark," she
tearfully assured the sheriff's officers, " is a long one for a
poor lone woman to bear ; and I have borne, and borne,
and borne, and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and
fubbed off from this day to that day, that it is a shame to
be thought on !" And so it happened that when next the
Lord Chief- Justice came upon Falstaff it was to find him
brawling with the sheriff's men, with Bardolph backing his
resistance, and Dame Quickly dancing round the scuffle,
calling names and crying for a rescue — or as she put it,
rescue or two " — at the top of her shrill voice.

" Keep the peace here !" commanded the Chief-Justice.
" What's the matter ? How now, Sir John ! You shouk
have been well on your way to York by this time."

" Oh, my most worshipful lord," began Mistress Quickly,

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 155

" an't please your grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap,
and he is arrested at my suit."

" For what sum ?"

" It is more than for some, my lord ; it is for all, all I
have. He hath eaten me out of house and home."

Gascoigne turned to Falstaff. " Fie, Sir John ! Are you
not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course
to come by her own ?"

"What is the gross sum I owe thee ?" Falstaff de
manded.

" Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy
money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt
goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table,
by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday in Wheeson* week,
when the Prince broke thy head for likening his father to a
singing-man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I
was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my
lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Did not goodwife
Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me Gossip
Quickly ? coming in to borrow some vinegar ; telling us she
had a good dish of prawns ; whereby thou didst desire to
eat some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green
wound ? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs,
desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor
people ; saying that ere long they should call me madam ?
And didst thou not kiss me and bid me lend thee thirty
shillings ? I put thee now to thy book-oath ; deny it, if
thou canst !"

" My lord," said FalstafF compassionately, " this is a poor
mad soul. She has seen better days, and the truth is
poverty has driven her crazy."

"Sir John, Sir John," the Chief-Justice answered, "I
know well your manner of twisting the true cause the false
way. But neither your confidence nor your glib and im
pudent sauciness can prevail upon my level consideration.

* Mistress Quickly means Whitsun.

156 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

You have practised upon this woman's weakness. Pay her
the debt you owe her, and undo the wrong you have done
her."

Falstaff was stung. " My lord, I will take no such
snubbing from you without an answer. You call honourable
boldness impudent sauciness ; if a man makes courtesy to
you and holds his peace, he is virtuous. No, my lord, my
humble duty remembered, I do not choose to be your suitor.
I say to you I request to be delivered from these officers,
being upon hasty employment in the King's affairs."

The reply was poor perhaps ; but it showed that Falstaff,
though careless with the low company of his choice, had
shame enough left, being a gentleman himself, to wince
under the rebuke of a gentleman. The Chief-Justice was
here interrupted by a Captain named Gower, with letters
from the King ; and while he studied them, Falstaff applied
himself to the task of wheedling Mistress Quickly — no very
difficult one. Scraps of their talk only reached the judge,
and he paid no heed to them. " As I am a gentleman, now."
"By the heavenly ground I tread upon, Sir John, I shall
have to pawn my plate and the tapestry of my dining-
chambers." " Glasses, glasses are the only ware for drink
ing ; and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story
of the Prodigal, or the German hunting in water-colours, is
worth a thousand of these bed-hangings and these fly-bitten
tapestries. Come, there's not a better soul in England than
thou, if 'twere not for thy humours. Go, wash thy face and
withdraw the action. Come, come, I know thou wast set on
to this." " Let it be twenty nobles, Sir John ; i' faith, I am
loath to pawn my plate, I am. . . . Well, well, you shall
have your way, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll
come to supper. You'll pay me in the lump — no instal
ments?" "As sure as I live!"— So Falstaff had his way,
and the prospect of a good supper besides ; and as Dame
Quickly bustled off to prepare it, he turned to the Chief-
Justice. " What's the news, my lord ?"

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 157

But the Chief-Justice affected not to hear him. " Where
lay the King last night ?" he demanded of Gower.

" At Basingstoke, my lord," was the answer.

" I hope all is well, my lord. What's the news, my lord ?"
Falstaff repeated.

Still the Chief-Justice paid no regard. " Are all his forces
returned with him ?" he went on to inquire. Gower
answered, " No ; fifteen hundred foot and five hundred
horse have marched to join Prince John against the Earl of
Northumberland and the Archbishop."

" Is the King back from WTales, my lord ?" Falstaff per
sisted. But still he addressed a deaf ear.

" Come with me, Master Gower," went on the Chief-
Justice. " I shall have a letter presently to send by you."

Falstaff cleared his throat. " My lord !"

"Hey? What's the matter?" For the first time the
Chief-Justice seemed aware of his presence. But now it was
Sir John's turn, and he pointedly addressed Captain Gower.

" Master Gower, may I beg you to dine with me ?"

" I thank you, Sir John, I must wait upon my lord here."

" Sir John," said the Chief-Justice sternly, " you loiter
too long here, being bound to recruit soldiers on your way."

Not a word did Sir John seem to hear. " Will you sup
with me then, Master Gower?"

The Chief-Justice stamped his foot. " What foolish master
taught you these manners, Sir John ?"

"Gower," said Sir John, with his bland smile, "if my
manners become me not, he was a fool who taught them
me." Than with a mock bow he turned on his adversary,
" Tap for tap, my lord, as between fencers — and so part
fair!"

So once more Chief-Justice Gascoigne had not all the best
of it, and Falstaff supped merrily that night at the Boar's
Head, hob-a-nob with Bardolph and Dame Quickly and a
ranting follower of his named Pistol, whose gift lay chiefly
in swaggering and mouthing fustian lines out of plays and

158 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

books, of which he knew just enough to misquote them — a
bragging rascal with the heart of a mouse. We shall meet
him again and make his better acquaintance.

And in the midst of their feasting who should drop in but
the Prince, newly returned from Wales, with his old comrade
Poins ? We do not change old habits in a moment ; and
now and again, even after his taste of a new self-respect and
men's better opinions, Harry caught himself hankering after
the old wild ways. As he put it to Poins, " It does my great
ness discredit, but I must confess to a longing for small
beer." He knew, too, that men did not seriously believe
him reformed. In his heart he was deeply sorry for his
father's sickness ; but few, he felt sure, would give him credit
for this, and the thought cast him back upon a reckless show
of not caring. " Yet," he confided to Poins, " I could tell
thee, as one whom it pleases me for lack of a better to call
my friend, I could be sad, and very sad too."

" Scarcely," answered Poins incredulously, " upon such a
subject."

The Prince sighed. " I see ; thou thinkest me as deep in
the devil's book as thyself or Falstaff. Let the end try the
man. But I tell thee my heart bleeds inwardly that my
father is so sick. What wouldst thou think of me if I should
weep ?"

" I should think thee a most princely hypocrite."

"And so would every man," said Harry bitterly ; "and
thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks. And
why, pray, should you and every man think so ?"

" Why, because of your loose life and your attachment to
Falstaff."

" And to thee ; add that."

Poins protested. " The worst any one can say of me is
that I am a younger son and a proper fellow of my hands."
So surely it appears to every man that he is a good fellow
really, though led astray by somebody else, or perhaps by
circumstances.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 159

The man they most blamed at any rate had resolved to
lead the Prince astray no longer, nor be suspected of it.
Falstaff had been stung by the Chief- Justice's rebuke, and
learning of the Prince's likely arrival in London, sat down
and wrote a letter, and despatched it by Bardolph. Thus it
ran : " SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, KNIGHT, to the son of the King,
nearest his father, HARRY PRINCE OF WALES, GREETING : /
will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity. I commend me to
thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with
Poins, who abuses thy favour. Repent at idle times as thou mayest ;
and so, farewell. — Thine, by yea and no, which is as muck as to
say, as thou usest him, JACK FALSTAFF with my familiars, JOHN
with my brothers and sisters, and SIR JOHN with all Europe."

" Is your master here in London ?" the Prince asked
Bardolph.

" Yea, my lord."

" Where sups he ? at the old haunt ?"

" At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap."

" What company ?"

" The old crew, my lord."

Prince Harry turned to Poins. " We will steal upon
them there " ; and after cautioning Bardolph not to report
his arrival, he and Poins hurried off to procure a couple of
waiters' suits, in which they appeared on the scene as the
old riotous mirth was at its height. The old laugh went
round, the old jests were played, but the Prince, though he
entered into them, missed the old sparkle. In truth he had
descended to this tavern world, but he had never belonged
to it, and was just beginning to find this out. Even Falstaff,
with the quick sympathy of a gentleman, felt a difference,
and answered now and then with a changed note — a terribly
sad note for all its defiant recklessness. It was Peto who
put an end to the revelry, breaking in with news that the
King had returned to Westminster, that a score of weary
riders had come with tidings from the north, and that
messengers were knocking up all the taverns to find Falstaft,

160 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

and hurry him on his road. Sir John thrust his chair back
from the table, and lurched off to pack his campaigning kit,
while the Prince did on sword and cloak and passed out
into the street, busy with the thought which had been in his
head all day. " We play the fools with the moment, and
the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Well,
the end shall try the man."

In quiet Gloucestershire there lived at this time a country
gentleman and Justice of the Peace, by name Master
Shallow; a vain, petty, talkative person, well on in years,
full of his own importance, and given to painting for his
neighbours the most wonderful pictures of the dashing,
dare-devil life he had led in London when he had studied at
Clement's Inn, and before he had come back to settle down
as a country squire.

He had not many listeners, and the best of them was his
cousin Master Silence ; for Master Silence either took, or
seemed to take, all his stories for gospel, and seldom inter
rupted with talk of his own. Now it happened that he had
come over for an early visit, and after the first handshaking
he must answer for his health and his wife's and his daughter
Ellen's (a godchild of Shallow's) and his son William's.
Thus the talk ran on : —

" And William ? I dare say now William is become a
good scholar. He is at Oxford still, is he not ?"

" He is, to my cost."

" He must be going then to the Inns o' Court shortly. I
w.as once of Clement's Inn, where I think they will talk of
mad Shallow yet."

" You were called ' lusty Shallow ' then, cousin."

" By the mass, I was called anything ; and I would have
done anything indeed too, and never thought twice. There
was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black
George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a
Cotswold man ; you wouldn't see another four such roisterers

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 161

in all the Inns o' Court. There was Jack Falstaff, too, now
Sir John, a youngster and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke
of Norfolk."

" Will that be the same Sir John who is coming here to
enlist soldiers?"

" The same, the very same. I saw him break Skogan's
head at the court-gate when he was a whipper-snapper not
so high ; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson
Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Dear, dear, the
mad days I have spent ! And to think how many of my old
acquaintance are dead !"

" We shall all follow, cousin."

" Certain, 'tis certain ; very sure, very sure : death, as the
Psalmist says, is certain to all ; all shall die. What was a
good yoke of bullocks fetching at Stamford fair ?"

"To say truth, I was not there."

" Death is certain. Is old Double of your town still
living ?"

" Dead, cousin."

"Dear, dear, dead is he? 'A drew a good bow: and
dead ! 'A shot a fine shoot : John o' Gaunt loved him well,
and betted much money on him. Dead, now? He'd hit
you the white at twelve-score yards, and carry a long
distance shot fourteen and fourteen and a half, 'twould have
done your heart good to see. What price a score of ewes
now?"

" That depends ; a score of good ewes may be worth ten
pounds."

" And so old Double is dead, is he?" ,

This profitable talk was here interrupted by a visitor, who
turned out to be our friend Bardolph, bearing Sir John
FalstafFs compliments and the news of his arrival.

Master Shallow was delighted to hear it. " How doth •
the good knight ? May I ask how my lady his wife doth ?"

"Pardon, sir," answered Bardolph, "a soldier is better
accommodated than with a wife."

ii

162 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" And that is well said, sir ; well said indeed. ' Better
accommodated,' very good indeed ; good phrases are surely,
and ever were, very commendable. 'Accommodated,' it
comes of Latin 'accommodo ' ; very good, a good phrase."

" Please, sir ?" Bardolph was puzzled. " I know nothing
about phrase ; but the word is a good soldier-like word, and
that I will maintain with my sword. 'Accommodated,'
that is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated ; or when
a man is, being, whereby he may be thought to be accom
modated; which," Bardolph wound up, "is an excellent
thing."

Before Master Shallow had done admiring this interpre
tation, FalstafFs arrival claimed his politeness. " Give me
your hand, give me your worship's good hand. By my
truth, you bear your years very well ! Welcome, good Sir
John. — This is my cousin Silence, a justice of the peace like
myself."

" Good Master Silence," Falstaff bowed, " it is fitting that
you should be of the peace. Phew ! this is hot weather,
gentlemen. Have you provided me here half a dozen
sufficient men ?"

" Marry, we have, sir." Master Shallow begged Falstaff
to be seated. " Where's the roll ? where's the roll ? where's .
the roll ?" He fussed about, fitting on his spectacles.
"Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so, . . ."
He found the names at length and called up the six dispirite
recruits one by one. They were a sorry crew, and Sir Johi
had plenty to say about their looks. Two of them only hi
the makings of stout soldiers— Ralph Mouldy and Pete
Bullcalf. "Is thy name Mouldy?" demanded Falstaff.
" Yes, sir, an it please you," stammered the poor man.
" Tis the more time thou wert used then." " Ha, ha, ha !"
tittered Master Shallow, " excellent, upon my word ! things
that are mouldy lack use : very good indeed ! Well said,
Sir John ; very well said."

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 163

Falstaff passed the six in review, " Are these all ?" he
asked.

" They are two more than your number," Shallow re
minded him. " You must have but four from these parts.
And so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner."

But Sir John was pressed for time. " Come, I will drink
with you, but I cannot stay for dinner. By my troth I am
glad to see you again, Master Shallow," he added affably.

" Ah, Sir John, do you remember that wild night we spent
in the windmill in St. George's Field ?"

" Tut, tut, Master Shallow ; no more of that, no more of
that."

" Ha ! that was a merry night. Ha, Cousin Silence, if
thou hadst seen what this knight and I have seen ! Eh,
Sir John ?"

" We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master
Shallow."

" That we have, that we have, that we have ; faith, Sir
[ohn, we have : our watchword was * Hem boys !' Come,
t's to dinner, let's to dinner. Dear, dear, the days that
e have seen ! Come, come . . ."

Now it suited Sir John's book very well that Bardolph
lould be left alone for a while with the recruits. As he
lly expected, no sooner had he stepped into the house with
ie justices than a couple — Bullcalf and Mouldy — began to
die up to the Corporal ; for these two likely fellows were
e ones who least liked the prospect of soldiering.
Bullcalf began, " Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand
y friend, and here's four ten-shillings in French crowns
r you. In truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged as go to the
ars. For my own part, sir, I don't care ; but rather
scause I am unwilling, and for my own part have a desire
stay with my friends ; else, sir, I would not care, for my
vn part, so much."

" Go to ; stand aside," said Bardolph gruffly.
"And good master corporal captain," pleaded Mouldy,

II — 2

164 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

"for my old woman's sake stand my friend. She has
nobody to do anything about her when I am gone, and she
is old and cannot help herself. You shall have forty shillings
from me too, sir."

" Go to; stand aside," commanded Bardolph in the same
tone. Perhaps he expected some further bribes ; but the
others were either too poor or too reckless to offer anything.
Indeed the feeblest scarecrow of them all protested that he
for his part was ready to go. " A man can die but once :
we owe God a death ; and I'll never bear a base mind. If
it be my destiny, so be it : if not, so be it : no man's too
good to serve his king : and let it go which way it will, the
man who dies this year is safe for the next."

" Well spoken," said Bardolph ; " thou'rt a good fellow."

" Faith, sir, I'll bear no base mind."

So when FalstafT came out, Bardolph drew him aside.
" Sir, a word with you," he whispered, " I have three pounds
to let Mouldy and Bullcalf go." — From which it will be seen
that the corporal took his pickings.

" Come, Sir John," demanded Master Shallow, " which
four will you have ?"

FalstafT eyed the six with his wisest air. " Mouldy and
Bullcalf shall stay at home ; I'll take the rest."

" Sir John, Sir John," Shallow twittered, " be better
advised ! They are your likeliest men, and I would have
you served with the best."

" Master Shallow," replied Falstaff loftily, " are you
pretending to teach me how to choose a man ? What care
I for limbs, thews, stature, bulk, or all the big total of these ?
Give me spirit, Master Shallow. Take that thin fellow
yonder: he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman
might as .well aim at the edge of a penknife. And that
other fellow — what a pair of legs for a retreat ! Or see this
ragged man — what's his name? — Wart. Bardolph, give
Wart a musket : now then, Wart, march ! Come, show us
how you handle your musket. So ; very well ; very good,.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 165

very good indeed ! O give me always a little, lean, old,
wrinkled, bald marksman ! There's a sixpence for thee,
Wart."

" But," Master Shallow protested, " he's not doing it right !
I remember at Mile-end Green, when I lived at Clement's
Inn, I belonged to an archery club; and there was a little
nimble fellow who would manage his weapon thus ; and he
would about and about, and come you in and come you in ;
' rah-tah-tah,' would he say; 'bounce!' would he say; and
away again would he go, and again would he come. I shall
never see such a fellow!" sighed Master Shallow, pacing
about and skipping to show exactly how it was done.

" These fellows will do well, Master Shallow," Falstaff
assured him, and so took leave, vowing he had a dozen miles
to march that night. The justice wished him prosperity.
" And pay us a visit on your way back ; let our old acquain
tance be renewed. Nay, who knows but I may go up to
London with you to court."

" Indeed, I wish you would, Master Shallow."
" There, there ; I said, it too hastily. Fare you well."
" Fare you well, gentlemen." Falstaff commanded Bar-
dolph to march the recruits ahead of him. " As I return,"
he told himself, " I will have sport with these justices; I do
see to the bottom of this Shallow. Dear, dear, how subject
we old men are to this vice of lying ! This same shrivelled-
up justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness
of his youth and the feats he hath done about Turnbull
Street— and every third word of it a falsehood ! I remember
him at Clement's Inn like a man made out of a cheese-paring,
a forked radish with a funny little head carved on top. And
now this miserable lath is become a squire, and talks as
familiarly of John o' Gaunt as if he had been his sworn
brother ; and I'll swear never set eyes on him but once, in
the tilt-yard, and then had his head broken for crowding
among the marshal's men. I was there and saw it, and told
John o' Gaunt he beat his own name. Well, well, I'll make

166 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

his further acquaintance if I return, and it shall go hard if I
don't turn him to some profit."

At home in his palace of Westminster the King lay sick
in mind and body, wearing to his end under the cares of the
crown he had once so eagerly seized, restless, wooing in vain
on his pillows of down that sleep which the meanest of his
subjects enjoyed as an easy boon — the labourer in smoky
cabin on a hard pallet, the ship-boy perched on a giddy mast
yet cradled by the rocking seas. And lying awake through
the long night-watches he remembered Richard and Richard's
prophecy— that Northumberland, who had made haste to
overthrow one king, would not be slow in casting down
another. Another prophecy he recalled ; an old one which
promised that his death should be in Jerusalem ; and he
prayed for an end of these civil wars, that he might sail, as
he had so long purposed, for the Holy Land, and there meet
it, not unwelcome.

And Northumberland, not less unhappy, still tarried in
his castle of Warkworth near the sea. But for him his son
Hotspur might be alive and Mortimer King of England ;
and it added a gnawing poison to his self-reproach that now,
when too late he would have redeemed his honour, the voices
that assured him how vain it was were the dispirited sad
voices of Hotspur's mother and Hotspur's wife. " The time
was," the young widow reminded him, scarce knowing how
cruelly ; " the time was you broke your word when it was
dearer than it can ever be now ; when your own Percy,
Harry, my heart's dear, looked northward for his father's
coming, and looked in vain. His honour was to him as the
sun to heaven ; by the light of him was all England's chivalry
moved to do brave deeds. All copied him who sought to be
noble; copied even his small tricks of manner and speech.
Him you left at disadvantage to abide a battle hopeless but
for the miracle of his name. Your honour ? Ah, never now
wrong his ghost by holding your honour more scrupulous

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 167

with others than you held it with him ! Let the Archbishop
alone and his friends. They are strong. Had my dear Harry
had but half their numbers, this day might I, twining my
arms around his neck, be talking of that other Harry's — his
slayer's— grave !"

" Beshrew your heart, daughter," groaned the unhappy
father, " you draw the spirit out of my breast. I must go
and face the danger, or it will find me elsewhere and worse
provided." But wife and son's wife implored him together
to escape to Scotland and wait; and knowing that they
despised him, knowing that he despised himself, he took their
advice, sent excuses to the Archbishop, and fled northward.
It must be terrible for an old man to despise himself, and
feel that the time for cure has gone by.

His message was felt as a heavy blow by the Archbishop
and his partisans Mowbray and Hastings. But it reached
them when they were in full march and committed to war.
At Gaultree Forest in Yorkshire they came face to face with
the King's army, led by Prince John and the Earl of West
moreland ; and again from the royal side came an offer of
terms. But this time the offer was not so honest as it had been
at Shrewsbury. Perhaps the King had Worcester's treachery
in his mind when he gave Prince John his instructions, or
perhaps that somewhat cold-blooded youth devised the snare
which his brother Prince Harry would have scorned to lay.

It was Westmoreland who brought the rebel leaders to
parley, demanding in the King's name their reasons for this
armed rising. Once more the Archbishop repeated the old
story. It was not with these men as with the Percies, a
story of past services unrewarded. They had hated Boling-
broke and felt his hatred from the beginning. The Arch
bishop owed him a brother's death. Mowbray was the son
of that Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, who had faced
Bolingbroke in the lists at Coventry, and gone from them
into hopeless exile ; he had been allowed, indeed, to inherit
his father's estates, but he had inherited, too, the memory of

168 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

that bitter sentence, and no man in England nursed a deeper
detestation of Henry. "With my consent," he declared,
"we will admit no parley." Hastings was less uncom
promising. " Has the Prince John," he asked, " a full com
mission from his father to hear our complaints and grant
conditions ?" Westmoreland assured them that this was so.
" I am come to learn these complaints, to tell you that his
Grace will give you audience and freely grant those demands
which shall appear to him to be just." On this assurance
the Archbishop tendered a paper setting forth their griev
ances. " Let them be redressed, my lord," said he, " and
all concerned in this movement granted due acquittal, and
once more we are His Majesty's peaceful subjects."

The royal offer seemed a fair one, and Mowbray alone
remained unconvinced. Westmoreland departed back with
the document, and returned with word that Prince John
would meet and confer with the malcontent leaders midway
between the two armies.

In the conference which followed the Prince opened with
a formal rebuke, but ended by confessing that the demands
contained in the paper seemed to him fair. " And I swear
here by the honour of my blood that my father's intentions
have been mistaken ; that they and his authority alike have
been abused by some about him. My Lord Archbishop,
these grievances shall be speedily redressed ; they shall, on
my soul. If my word for it content you, we will here and
now disband our forces on each side, and pledge our restored
love and amity."

" I take your princely word that they shall be redressed,"
answered the Archbishop.

And now it only remained to pay and discharge the two
armies. Hastings sent word to the rebel camp ; and while
the leaders drank and pledged one another, they heard the
cheers of the dispersing soldiery. Prince John commanded
Westmoreland to go and disband the royal troops. " My
lord," said he, turning to the Archbishop, " if it please you.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 169

let the two armies march past us, that we may see the men
we came so near contending with."

The Archbishop agreed, and sent Hastings to give the
order.

But now Westmoreland came back with word that the
royal army was not yet in motion. Its leaders had charge
from Prince John to keep their station, and would not stir
without his direct command.

" They know their duties," said the Prince calmly.

What he meant by this he made plain when Hastings
returned and announced that it was too late to march the
Archbishop's men past ; they were already dispersed and
hurrying homeward, east, west, north, and south, like boys
when a school breaks up.

"Good news, my Lord Hastings," said Westmoreland
ironically ; " and so I arrest you, traitor, of high treason ;
and you, Lord Archbishop ; and you also, Lord Mowbray."

Under this treacherous stroke, Mowbray, as he had most
mistrusted, was the first to find his speech. He turned on
Prince John. " Is this just and honourable ?" he asked.

It was neither ; it was the meanest and coldest crime the
House of Lancaster had to pay for in its day of reckoning.
" Will you break your faith thus ?" the Archbishop de
manded.

" I pledged none to thee" was the Prince's shameful
answer. "I promised redress of these grievances, and by
my honour I will perform it with a most Christian care.
But for you rebels, you shall taste the doom of rebels.
Lead these men to the block ; and sound drums for the
pursuit of their followers !" With the name of God on his
lips the Prince hurried off to chase and massacre.

At home the thoughts of the sick King still ran on his
voyage to Palestine, and again on the son he loved most but
could never understand. The nearer he drew to his end the
more his heart yearned over this Harry who should succeecj

170 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

him. Most of all he hated that others should share or even
guess his own fears. To his other sons — and especially to
Thomas of Clarence, who had succeeded to Harry's place in
the Council, and cherished little love but no little contempt
for his elder brother — he insisted pitifully on Harry's good
qualities and kindness of heart.

There came a day when, stretched on his couch, he asked
after Harry, and was told that the Prince had gone to hunt
at Windsor.

" Is not Thomas of Clarence with him ?"

" No, my lord, he is here." And Clarence came forward.
" What would my lord and father ?" he asked.

" W7hy, Clarence, art thou not with thy brother ? Thou
dost neglect him, and yet of all his brothers he loves thee
best. Cherish that love, my son ; and when I am dead it
may knit you all together in brotherly affection, proof against
envious whispers who will seek to divide our house against
itself. His is a generous nature, but quickly incensed, and
then as stubborn as flint ; therefore chide his faults carefully
and in season, and again in his headstrong moods give him
rein and let his passion work itself out. Study him, Clarence."

" I will observe him, my lord, with all care and love."

" But why art thou not at Windsor with him ?"

" He is not at Windsor to-day, but dining in London —
with Poins and his other constant companions."

This was just what Henry had dreaded to hear ; and for
the moment in his weakness he let slip the cry of his heart,
the anguish he had been trying to hide, the perpetual haunt
ing terror of the days to come, when he should be asleep in
his tomb and his son misgoverning England without check
or guidance. It was at this moment, while the Earl of
Warwick, one of his wisest counsellors, sought to console
him, that a messenger arrived from the north with happy
news. Northumberland at last had met the reward of
paltering with fate. He had failed Hotspur ; he had failed
the Archbishop ; both in the hour of need. Too late he had

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 171

been forced to summon up courage and strike with Lord
Bardolph and the remnant of the rebel leaders ; and at
Tadcaster, near York, had fallen on the field in the general
rout of his troops.

This was the news which at another time might have put
new life into Henry. But Henry was past rejoicing.
Stretching out his hands, with one terrible call upon Good
Fortune which had come too late, he sank back upon his
couch in a swoon.

His sons rushed to his side, with Westmoreland and
Warwick. They bore him into another chamber, and laid
him there on a bed, standing beside him until the fit passed
and his eyes opened. He was very weary, he whispered ;
let there be no noise made, unless it were soothing music.
He begged them to set the crown on the pillow beside him,
while the music lulled him — if it might be— to sleep.

While the musicians played softly in a near room, and
the King's eyes closed, Prince Harry came in noisy high
spirits along the corridor, eager to tell the good news from
the north which he had heard outside. Warwick met him
at the door, entreating, " Less noise, less noise !"

The sight of his brothers' grief and of the figure stretched
on the bed sobered him. " Has he heard the good news ?"
he asked. " What ? Overcome by it ? If he be sick with
joy, he'll recover without physic."

" Not so much noise," Warwick entreated again. " Prince,
I implore you speak low ; your father is disposed to sleep."

The others withdrew softly to the other room, but Harry
sat down to watch alone by his father. While he watched
his eyes fell on the crown resting on the pillow. "Why
does it lie there, I wonder ?" He went over, touched it, took
it in his hands, laid it back again. " Sleep with it now ; but
of how much slumber has it not robbed thee, my father —
this golden burden ?" As he set it down something caught
his attention. A tiny feather of down had escaped from the
pillow and lay close to the King's parted lips. He bent ;

172 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the feather did not stir. " This must be death !" He dropped
on his knees. " My gracious lord ! my father !" The figure
on the bed neither answered nor moved. " Sleep ? ay, the
sleep that hath parted so many English kings from this
golden circlet." He took the crown again from the pillow,
and standing upright held it in both hands above him. " My
due to thee, father, is a son's tears and heavy sorrows, and
tenderly, fully, shall they be paid ; thy due to me is this
crown. Here on my head I place it ; God shall guard it : the
whole world shall not be strong enough to force it from me —
the crown of England, to be my son's as it was my father's !"

By and by the eyes of the sick King unclosed, and gazed
feebly about the room. It was empty. He raised himself
on an elbow. " Warwick ! Gloucester ! Clarence !" he
called; and as they came hurriedly, "Why have you left
me alone here ?"

" We left the Prince of Wales here, my liege. He under
took to sit by you and watch."

" The Prince of Wales ! Where is he ? Let me see him ;
he is not here."

" He must have gone out by this door ; he did not pass
through the room where we have been sitting."

But the King's eyes were now turned upon his pillow.
" Where is the crown ? Who has taken it ? Go, fetch the
Prince. Is he so hasty to think me dead ? O you sons !" he
cried bitterly, " you for whom we fathers wake and scheme
and toil, only to be thus rewarded !"

The Prince was not far to seek. Warwick found him
overcome with grief, weeping alone in one of the rooms close
by ; and he came back joyful and amazed, while Henry dis
missed the others with a motion of his weak hand.

" Father ! I never thought to hear you speak again !"

" Thy wish, Harry, was father of that thought. It seems
I stay too long and weary thee. What ! So hungry after
my empty chair that thou must needs put on my honours
before thy hour comes ? Couldst thou not have waited a

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 173

little — a very little ? but must steal that which in an hour
or two would have been thine without offence ? All thy life
has proved that thou hadst never any love for me, and now
thou wilt have me die well assured of it. What ! Couldst
thou not forbear one half-hour ? Go, then, dig my grave :
bid the bells ring for thy coronation." From terrible re
proaches the dying father passed to yet more bitter, more
terrible gibes, " Harry tlie Fifth is crowned ! Long live the
new king, and farewell to dignity and wise counsel !
Assemble, all the apes of idleness, all the scum of Europe !
Has any nation a ruffian ready to swear, drink, dance, revel,
rob, murder, commit the oldest sins in the newest kind of
ways ? Be happy — he shall trouble you no longer. Send
him to England — there are office, honours, power awaiting
him here. For Harry the Fifth is King, and England goes
back to her old inhabitants, the wolves !"

Harry was hurt beyond anger. " My liege, blame the
tears that hindered my speech and have suffered you to
speak, me to listen, so far. There is your crown ; and may
He who wears a crown everlasting long guard it yours ! If
I care for it more than as your honour and renown, let me
not rise from these knees. God is my witness, when I came
in and finding no sign of breath believed you dead, how cold
it struck my heart : my witness with what thoughts I lifted
the crown, accusing it and the cares of it for thy death, and
put it on my head as moved by the moment to try with it,
as with an enemy who had murdered my father, the quarrel
of a true inheritor. But if I rejoiced, was puffed up, or
hailed its possession, may God keep it from my head for ever,
and abase me as low as the poorest vassal who kneels to it
in awe and terror !"

These indignant words, spoken with honest looks, touched
the King and convinced him. " My son, God must have put
it in thy mind to take the crown, that thy words of excuse
might win the more surely thy father's love ! Come, Harry,
sit by my bed, and hear my counsel — the latest, I think, that

174 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

I shall ever utter. God knows, my son, by what devious
ways I came to this crown, as I know too well what a weight
it hath been to wear. But it descends to thee more quietly,
better allowed by men's opinions, ay, and assured; for I
carry to earth all the stain with which it was won. All my
reign through I have been forced to defend it, and thou
knowest with what peril I have done so. My death changes
all, and by thee it will be worn as a fair inheritance. Yet
beware ; the power of those who advanced me and might
have dragged me low again is but newly broken. It was to
keep them busy, too busy to be idly prying into my title, that
I had planned to lead them to Palestine. Do thou, Harry,
keep them busy with wars abroad, and so may action wear
out the old bad memories, and God, forgiving how I came
by the crown, grant it may abide with thee in true peace !"

"My gracious liege," declared Harry, "as you won it,
wore it, kept it, and have given it to me, so it is mine, and
against all the world will I maintain it."

The King was exhausted and almost too weak for speech.
" My lord,'" he muttered, as Warwick re-entered, " the
chamber where I swooned — has it not some particular
name?"

"It is called Jerusalem, your majesty." For so it was
called from the paintings around its walls, and indeed is so
called to this day.

Henry remembered the old prophecy that nowhere but in
Jerusalem should his end be. " Praise be unto God ! vainly
I supposed it was to be in the Holy Land ; but now bear
me back to that chamber, and let Henry die in Jerusalem."

Now Falstaff had not forgotten his promise to revisit
Justice Shallow on his way back from the wars ; and a little
while after these things happened at Westminster, in peace
ful Gloucestershire Sir John was resting his unwieldy legs
under the justice's table, drinking deep of his sack, listening
to his endless empty discourse, and promising himself how

PRINCE HARRY RESTORING THE CROWN.

From a print in the Boydell collection after J. Boydell.

176 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Prince Harry would laugh over his description of this visit,
a little dressed up. " It's a long way a dressed-up tale and
a jest with a solemn face will go with a youngster who never
had an ache in his shoulders. I will make Harry laugh over
this Shallow till he cries."

And indeed after supper, when the justice led his guests
out into his orchard, where their dessert was spread in a
summer arbour — " a last year's pippin of my own grafting,
with a dish of caraways and so forth " — the tale promised to
be a very lively one. For Master Shallow had drunk too
much sack, and Master Silence had unaccountably found his
tongue and could not be restrained from trolling out snatches
of song.

" I did not think," remarked Falstafi, observing him with
a roguish cock of the eye ; " I did not think Master Silence
had been a man of this mettle."

" Who, I ?" hiccupped Silence ; " I have been merry once
or twice in my time :" and again he broke into singing.

While they pledged each other and Falstaff egged Silence
on to make himself more and more ridiculous, they heard
from the orchard a knocking on the house door, and Shallow's
man Davy ran to answer it. He came back. " An't please
your worship, there's one Pistol arrived from the court with
news."

" Pistol ? From the court ? Let him come in. Why,
how now, Pistol ?" demanded Sir John, as the visitor came
swaggering across the turf. " What wind blew you hither ?"

" Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Knight,
thou art now one of the greatest men in this realm."

"Ton my word, now, I think he be," tittered Master
Silence foolishly, "unless it be fat Puff of Barson parish."

"Puff!" Pistol rounded on him with a flourish in his
loftiest manner, familiar enough to his friends, but highly
disconcerting to an honest country gentleman pretty far
fuddled with drink. " Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward
base ! Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend, And belter-

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 177

skelter have I rode to thee, And tidings do I bring and lucky
joys And golden times and happy news of price."

"Come," said Falstaff, with a glance at Silence, who sat
with his jaw dropped in sheer astonishment at a gentleman
who talked blank verse, and such unusual blank verse, by
habit, " I pray thee tell thy news like a man of this world."

" A farthing for the world and worldlings base ! I speak
of Africa and golden joys."

" Very well, then." Falstaff observing its effect upon the
two justices, took up Pistol's manner with a grin. " O base
Assyrian knight, what is thy news ? Let King Cophetua
know the truth thereof."

"And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John"-

warbled Silence.

" Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons ? And shall
good news be baffled ? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies'
lap!"

" Honest gentleman," quavered Shallow, " I don't know
who you may be, but all this is very strange to me —

" Why, then, be sorry for it," Pistol interrupted.

"Your pardon, sir," persisted the little justice; "if you
come with news from the court, I take it there's but two
ways, either to utter it or to conceal it." He drew himself
up primly. " I am, sir, under the King, a person of some
authority."

" Under which King, Besonian ? Speak or die !"

" Why, under King Harry."

" Harry the Fourth or the Fifth?"

" Harry the Fourth, to be sure."

Pistol snapped his fingers. " That, then, for thy authority !
Sir John, thy pet lamb is to-day King of England. And long
live Harry the Fifth!"

" What !" Falstaff staggered to his feet. " The old King
dead!"

12

178 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" As a door-nail."

"Away, Bardolph ! saddle my horse. Master Robert
Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, it is thine.
Pistol, I will double-charge thee with honours."

" O joyful day !" Bardolph waved his hat. " I wouldn't
swap my fortune to-day for a knighthood."

But Falstaff was all fume and bustle to be off towards
London. " Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow

my Lord Shallow — be what thou wilt, I am the dispenser

of fortune now— get on thy boots! We'll ride all night.
Bless thee, Pistol. Away, Bardolph ! Come, tell me more,
Pistol. Boot, boot and saddle, .Master Shallow! I know
the young King is pining for me. Let us take any man's
horses; the laws of England are what I choose 'em to be.
Blessed are they who have been Jack Falstaff's friends ; and
woe to my Lord Chief- Justice !"

The Prince's loose companions were not alone in believing
that a merry time lay in store for them, and a sorry one for
men of sobriety and good counsel. The Lord Chief-Justice,
for example, had reason enough to fear what Falstaff so
confidently promised. What could he look for from the
youth he had been hardy enough to commit to prison ? "I
would he had called me with him," he sighed, when news
came to him of the King's death. Whatever happened, it
could not be worse than he had foreboded of late.

At the first audience of the new King which he attended
at Westminster, the Princes Gloucester and Clarence gave
this upright judge but cold comfort. " You will have to pay
your suit to Sir John Falstaff now," the latter sneered.

Harry when he entered the audience chamber was quick
to perceive the gloom on their faces. "Brothers," said he,
"you mix fears with your sadness. This is the English
court, not the Turkish ; here Harry is succeeded by Harry,
not one tyrant by a tyrant who slays his brothers. Yet be
sorrowful, as I will be sorrowful ; but let us as brothers
wear for a common reason the sorrow that so royally be-

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 179

comes you." The young King cast his eyes around the
chamber. " I see you all look strangely on me. You most
of all " — he turned on the Lord Chief-Justice — " you are
assured I have little love for you."

" I am assured," answered Gascoigne with humble courage,'
" that if I be measured rightly, your Majesty has no just
reason to hate me." He had promised the Princes before
hand that he would sue for no half-hearted pardon, but if his
uprightness and innocence availed nothing, would follow the
dead King to his grave and tell him in another world who
had sent him there.

"No reason?" demanded Harry. "Can a prince of my
great hopes forget the indignity you once laid on me ?
What ! rate, rebuke, pack off to prison the heir of England !
Is that to be forgotten, think you ?"

" My liege," answered Gascoigne firmly, " as judge I stood
for your father. I represented the King. While I admin
istered his law your highness was pleased to forget the
majesty I stood for; you struck me there in the very seat
of justice. In me you offended your father, and by his
authority I committed you. If I did ill, you who now wear
his crown cannot take it ill should a son of yours insult the
law and, through the law, your royal person. Suppose the
case yours ; imagine yourself so disdained by a son ; imagine
me silencing that son by the power I hold from you ; and so
after cold consideration pass sentence upon me, and say what
I did that misbecame my place or my person or the majesty
of my King."

" My lord judge," answered Harry, " you are right. Con
tinue to bear the scales and the sword of justice, and may
you increase in honour till you live to see a son of mine
offend you and obey you as I did. Then shall I live to say
as my father said : ' I am happy to have a judge so brave
that he dares to do justice on my own son ; and not less
happy to have a son who can so submit himself to justice.'
Yes, my lord, continue to wear that untarnished sword and

12 — 2

180 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

to use it as boldly, as justly, as impartially as you used it
against me. There is my hand ; help me with your wisdom ;
and with the help of God and such counsellors as you, no
one shall have cause to wish aught but long life to King
Harry."

Had Falstaff known of this — had he and his companions
guessed that while they spurred towards London the King's
officers were ransacking the Boar's Head Tavern and
dragging its hostess and others to answer for the life of a
man mishandled there by Pistol and since dead of his
wounds— their haste had been less confident. As it was,
they reached the city and posted themselves near West
minster Abbey in time to hear the trumpets and see the
grooms strewing rushes along the roadway for the King's
return from the coronation. Falstaff had already on the
strength of his promises bled the justice for the loan of a
thousand pounds, and his only regret was that time had not
allowed him to array his men in new liveries. " Stand here
by me, Master Shallow ; I will make the King do you grace :
I will leer upon him as he comes by, and you shall mark
how pleasantly he'll look. Stand behind me, Pistol ; I wish
I had those liveries. But no matter, this poor show will
prove what zeal, what devotion, I had to see him."

"True, true," Master Shallow agreed.

" As it were to ride day and night ; and not to have
patience, not to change my clothes, but to stand stained
with travel and sweating with desire to see him ; thinking of
nothing else, putting all other business aside, as if there
were nothing else important in the world but to see him."

" Very true."

Pistol indeed had heard disquieting news of the raid on
the Boar's Head Tavern, and repeated it to Falstaff. The
womenkind there, it seemed, had been taken and flung into
prison.

" Tut, tut," — Sir John waved him aside ; " I will see them
set atjiberty."

KING HENRY THE FOURTH 181

And now the trumpets sounded, the throng raised a mighty
shout, and forth from the great doors of the Abbey stepped
the newly crowned King with his train of peers attending.

" God save thy grace, King Hal !" Falstaff thrust himself
forward, cheering louder than any. " My royal Hal !"

"The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of
fame!" chimed in Pistol.

" God save thee, my sweet boy !" Falstaff shouted, almost
splitting his lungs.

The King heard his remembered voice, halted, flung him
a glance, and turned to Gascoigne. " My Lord Chief-
Justice, pray speak to that vain man."

" Have you lost your wits ?" chided the judge. " Do you
know whom you speak to ?"

But Falstaff was not to be repressed. " My King ! My
Jove ! I am speaking to thee, my heart !"

The King looked him up and down. Then, clearly and
coldly, he spoke: " Old man, I know thee not. Get thee to
thy prayers ; for ill do white hairs become a fool and a jester.
I have been a long time dreaming, and in that dream I have
known such a man, one so swollen with indulgence, so old,
and so profane. But now I am awake and despise my dream.
Hence ! leave gluttony, and learn that there is a grave gaping
for thee and thrice as wide as for other men. Nay ; answer
me not with some foolish jest, nor presume that what I was
I still am. For God knows, and the world shall know, that
I have dismissed my old self, and with it I dismiss those
who were my companions. When thou hearest that I am
again what I was, then approach and be again my tutor and
feeder in riots ; but until then I forbid thee on pain of death,
as I have forbidden the rest of my misleaders, to approach
within ten miles of my person. I have granted thee a
sufficient income for life, that poverty may not drive thee to
evil, and as we hear of your reformation we will advance
you. My Lord Chief-Justice, it shall be your duty to see
this performed." And so King Harry passed on.

182 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Falstaff turned a sad, very woeful face. " Master Shallow,"
he said, " I owe you a thousand pound."

" Yea, marry, Sir John," chirped Shallow ; " and I beseech
you let me have it to carry home with me."

"That can hardly be, Master Shallow," the old knight
answered pitifully, and strove to reassure himself. " Do
not you grieve at this. He will send for me in private.
Look you, he has to appear like this to the world. Never
fear for your advancement ; I shall make you a great man
yet."

Master Shallow shook a rueful head. " I cannot well
perceive how. I beseech you, Sir John, let me have five
hundred of my thousand."

" Sir, I will be as good as my word. Come with me to
dinner ; come, Pistol and Bardolph ; I shall be sent for soon
to-night."

But even this hope was shattered by Lord Chief-Justice
Gascoigne as he came back along the street in talk with
Prince John of Lancaster and followed by his officers.
" Go," he commanded ; " carry Sir John Falstaff and his
company to the Fleet Prison !"

" My lord, my lord," stammered poor Falstaff.

" No more at present ! I will hear you soon, at another
time." He watched them as they were led off and turned
to Prince John in silence.

" A good beginning," said the Prince quietly ; " the King
has provided for his old followers, but they are banished
until the world finds their conduct more reputable." •

" They are," assented the Lord Chief-Justice grimly.

" My lord, he has called his parliament." Again the stern
old judge nodded as a man well pleased. " I will lay odds,"
the Prince went on, " that before the year is out we shall
be moving — perhaps as far as to France." The Lord Chief-
Justice looked at him sharply. " I heard a little bird sing
so," said Prince John.

KING HENRY THE FIFTH

PRINCE HAL was now King Henry V., and Prince Hal no
longer. All trace of that madcap, that haunter of taverns
and dissolute company, had vanished in the young man who
now held the sceptre of England with a firm hand and
serious purpose. The wildness seemed to die out of him
as the breath left his father's body, and his people won
dered, while they thanked Heaven for the change. Never,
they told each other, had reformation come in such a swift
and cleansing flood ; and since the days of miracles had
gone by, they were forced to believe that his thoughtfulness
had been growing secretly under cover of his old wild
courses, as a strawberry ripens under a nettle, or grass
springs fastest while the night hides it.

For they saw him to be not sober-minded only, but
shrewd ; of strong will, yet just ; masterful, while willing to
listen to advice ; at once a king with high thoughts for his
country's welfare and honour, and a man with a mind of
his own. He had not forgotten his father's dying counsel,
to strengthen his throne by busying the minds of the nobles
with foreign conquest, that so they might be the less tempted
to plot mischief. They were restless, he knew. War was
their chief and natural pastime ; he must supply it abroad
upon an honourable excuse, or they would find one for
raising trouble at home. Already plots were hatching
around the young Earl of March, who (as men did not
forget) in strict law was heir to the throne. It was high
time to confirm himself for the great struggle surely coming
between the crown of England and big feudal lords. A

183

184 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

successful war abroad would keep them busy, and (better
still) busy in strengthening his hands.

And the chance lay open to him. France had let no
occasion slip of thwarting and fostering treason against
Bolingbroke ; but France just now had an unhappy mad
man for king, under whom she was rent by the quarrels
of two factions, the one headed by the Duke of Burgundy,
the other by the Duke of Orleans : Burgundians and
Armagnacs they were called. Under this strife she lay
for the moment helpless. This moment was Henry's, and
he seized it to claim the French throne.

The claim was in law a shadowy one ; the shadow of a
claim raised once before by our Edward III. It rested on
this. Philip the Bold of France, who died in 1285, had left
two sons, Philip the Fair, who succeeded him, and Charles,
Count of Valois. Philip the Fair had three sons, each of
whom held the throne in turn, and one daughter Isabella,
who married our Edward II., and became the mother of
Edward III. Now, when these three sons died without
heirs, the crown did not pass to their sister Isabella, but to
the son of Charles of Valois, the reason being that by a law
(called the Salic Law) no woman could hold the succession.
And with the descendants of Charles of Valois the crown
had remained down to the madman Charles VI., who now
wore it.

Edward III. had refused to accept this Salic law, arguing
that it was of force only in Salic land, and that this did not
include France. There had been much reason in his claim,
but there was none in the claim now revived by Henry V.,
his descendant ; because if Henry stood upon strict law, the
throne of France belonged not to him but to the young Earl of
March, as first in direct descent from Edward*

He made his claim, however, and he had something more
than the weakness of France to promise him success. For

* A glance at the accompanying table will help to make plain the
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186 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

reasons of their own the clergy of England, headed by the
Archbishop of Canterbury, were longing for a foreign war.
As Henry wanted to keep his nobles busy, so the clergy
wished to keep Henry diverted from prying into their
affairs. The Church, in fact, was feeling the first of the
pains and disquiet which in time brought the Reformation
to birth. Men were beginning to look enviously on her
great riches, and to ask how they were spent. In the last
reign a bill had been brought before Parliament making
the King master of the lands left to the Church by devout
persons and " disordinately spent " by the clergy ; the
money to be used in maintaining earls, knights, and
esquires for the defence of the realm, almshouses for the
poor, and leaving a surplus of twenty thousand pounds for
the King's own coffers. This, as the Archbishop put it,
was not drinking deep, but drinking cup and all ; and how
the clergy felt towards the bill we need not say. Pressing
troubles had pushed it out of question for the time, but now
under the new King it was being proposed again. Some
thing must be done to divert him, and what better for this
purpose than a foreign war ? For this to be sure he would
need money. Very well ; these wily Churchmen would
supply him with money.

They did more ; they made the war binding upon his
conscience. The day came which brought the French
answer to his demands ; but before granting the ambas
sadors audience, Henry sent for the Archbishop of Canter
bury and desired to be told whether the Salic law did or did not
bar his claim. " God forbid," said he, " that you should wrest
or bow your interpretation to that which suits not with the
truth, since God knows how much blood will be shed to seal
approval of what you say. Speak, my lord ; but bear this in
mind, I conjure you, and speak only with a pure conscience."

The Archbishop spoke without hesitation. To begin
with (he argued), the Salic land did not include France, but
lay in Germany, between the Rivers Sala and Elbe. The

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 187

Salic law was never devised for France, nor did the French
possess their present territory until 400 years and more
after the death of King Pharamond, the supposed founder of
the law. Moreover, this very law would upset the French
King's claim to their own crown, since both King Pepin
and Hugh Capet had derived their titles by female descent.
All this the Archbishop set forth with much show of learn
ing, and quoted the Book of Numbers to support him : " If
a man die, and have no son, ye shall cause his inheritance
to pass unto his daughter." " May I, then, with right and
conscience make this claim ?" demanded Henry. " The sin
be on my head !" was the Archbishop's answer. Nobles
and churchmen now vied in urging the King to uphold his
claim, but Henry, having the answer he religiously sought,
needed no urging. His mind made up on this main point,
he turned his thoughts at once to ways and means. It
would never do to leave his kingdom defenceless against the
Scot, who would seize the moment of his absence to invade
and harry. Said the old proverb —

" If that you will France win,
Then with Scotland first begin."

The Duke of Exeter and the Archbishop met this diffi
culty. " My liege, a quarter of your fighting men, with
you to lead them, will set France shaking. Leave us with
the rest, and we promise to defend England for you."

It was enough. " Call in the Dauphin's messengers !"
commanded Henry, and they entered. "Now we will
know the Dauphin's pleasure, since it seems you come
from him." " May we speak freely ?" they demanded.
" We are no tyrant," was the answer, " but a Christian
King ; our passions as securely chained as the wretches in
our prisons. Be frank without fear.'7

Their first words made it clear that to the mistaken
Dauphin Henry was still Prince Hal. " In answer to your
claims, then, the Dauphin, our master, says that you savour

188 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

too much of your youth ; bids you be advised you cannot
dance your way into French dukedoms; and sends you,
therefore, as an offering more suitable for you — this chest
of treasure."

" What treasure, uncle ?" asked Henry, as the Duke of
Exeter peered beneath the lid they lifted.

" My liege, it is — tennis-balls !"

Henry sprang from his throne, but mastered his rage in a
moment, and stood grimly staring down upon the tennis-
balls, these insulting ghosts of his youth fetched up for a
sorry joke. He turned upon the ambassadors. " We are
glad," he said quietly, " the Dauphin is so pleasant with us.
We thank you for his present and for your pains. When
we have matched our rackets with these balls of his, by
God's grace we will play a set which shall strike his father's
crown into the hazard ! Yes, we understand him, and how
he twits us with our wild youth. But tell him that when I
rouse me in my throne of France he shall see and know for
what I reserved my majesty ! And tell him," Henry's
voice rose, " tell the pleasant prince this mock of his has
turned his tennis-balls to gun-stones, shall mock wives out
of their husbands, mothers from their sons, shall mock
castles down, and give men yet unborn cause to curse the
pleasantry. But all this lies in the will of God, to whom I
appeal. Go in peace. Let the Dauphin know that I follow,
and add that his jest will savour of a shallow wit when
bewept by thousands more than it made laugh." He turned
to his attendants, " Give these men safe conduct hence."

" It was a merry message." said the Duke of Exeter
when the ambassadors had taken their leave.

" We hope to make the sender blush for it," answered
the King. Having committed the main issue to God
whose will upon the best advice he was following, this
thorough Englishman turned to business. All his thought
now was to get to France swiftly and in good time.

And all the fighting spirits of England took fire from

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 189

him. They cared little for the right or wrong of the excuse ;
they looked back across years of galling peace and French
insult and intrigue, and remembered Cressy. No more
silken dalliance ! Noble and knight, squire and serving-
man, took down their weapons and looked to their equip
ment. The poor man sold his pasture and bought a horse
to carry him to the wars and win wealth. All was noise
and bustle about the armourers' forges. The taverns of
Eastcheap felt the stir. The war would bring plunder for
rascals. " Profits," as Pistol put it, " will accrue " ; and he
and the rest of Falstaft's hangers-on began to furbish up
their swords and scour their stained armour, eager as crows
at the scent of carrion, thirsty as horse-leeches. Pistol
himself had lately patched up a marriage with Dame
Quickly, greatly to the disgust of a late crony, Corporal
Nym, to whom that lady had already plighted her troth ;
and red-nosed Bardolph had much ado to keep the peace
between the rivals, who drew when they met and deafened
him with their abuse, Pistol ranting in the old braggart
fashion, Nym sheepish but persistent and vindictive, and
the one as cowardly as the other. " Come, shall I make
you two friends ?" proposed Bardolph. " We must to
France together. Why should we keep knives to cut one
another's throats ?"

" Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on !"
foamed Pistol.

Nym was more matter of fact. " You'll pay me the
eight shillings I won of you at betting ?"

" Base is the slave that pays !" was all the satisfaction to
be had at first; but presently relenting, Pistol promised
six-and-eightpence, money down. Such are the quarrels of
rogues, quickly patched up on the chance of preying to
gether upon honest men. Within a minute this pair were
sworn brothers for the campaign, in which Pistol proposed
to serve as sutler — with pickings.

But Falstaff had come to the end of his campaignings.

190 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

He lay at Mistress Quickly's, sick (as his hostess described
it) of " a burning quotidian tertian " ; but in a wiser moment
she came nearer the truth. " The King has killed his
heart " ; there lay the secret of the disease, and before the
King embarked the old reprobate had died of it. " A' made
a finer end," was Mistress Quickly's account, " and went
away an it had been any christom child ; a' parted even
just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the
tide ; for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play
with flowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there
was but one way ; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a'
babbled of green fields. « How now, Sir John !' quoth I ;
' what, man ! be o' good cheer.' So a' cried out, ' God,
God, God!' three or four times. Now I, to comfort him,
bid him a' should not think of God ; I hoped there was no
need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So a'
bade me lay more clothes on his feet. . . ." In short, Fal-
staff was dead. " Would I were with him," groaned
Bardolph, " wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in
hell !" and even Pistol heaved an honest sigh before kissing
his wife and bidding her keep good house and give no credit
during his absence.

The King, before setting sail from Southampton, had to
cast off other and better trusted friends than Sir John. On
the very eve of departure a plot was discovered for murder
ing him and setting the young Earl of March on the throne.
To this treason French gold had tempted three men in
Henry's inmost counsels — his cousin Richard, Earl of
Cambridge, Sir Thomas Grey, and even Lord Scroop of
Masham, his bedfellow. And they, not suspecting them
selves discovered, gave Henry opportunity to condemn
them out of their own mouths. Before the nobles, who
already knew their guilt, he first consulted them on the
firmness and loyalty of his troops, and having listened to
their false assurances, turned to the Duke of Exeter, bid
ding him set free a man who the day before had been

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192 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

imprisoned for railing against the King's majesty. The
three plotters each in turn pressed for severity upon the
offence, though a trifling one and committed in drunken
ness. " Let us be merciful," said Henry. " Your high
ness," urged Cambridge, " may be merciful and yet punish
him." " Nevertheless, we will set him free, although Cam
bridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear care to preserve our
person, would have him punished. And now to our French
business !" He handed to the three plotters the parchments
they supposed to contain their commissions, and watched
them break the seals. " Why, how now, gentlemen ?
What read you in those papers that so changes your
complexion ?"

The unhappy three were staring at their death warrants.
Mercy was not for them. Their punishment must be
extreme as the trust reposed in them. In solemn sorrow
Henry sent them out to their doom. " I will weep for
thee," he said to Scroop, the most trusted of all, " for thy
revolt is like another Fall of Man." And they confessed
that they deserved the death which Henry prayed God
to give them patience to endure. They were led forth ;
and that same night the King put his puissance in the
further keeping of God and cheerfully hoisted sail for
France.

Already in the French court some minds were growing
uneasy. The Dauphin, to be sure, consented to follow his
father's advice (for Charles, now enjoying one of his short
spells of sanity, observed the vigour of the English approach
and recalled bygone disasters and the memorable shame o
Cressy) and to repair some of the weaker fortresses. But
he persisted in his fatal error that Henry was but a vain
shallow boy, not to be taken seriously, still less to be feared
" As for fear," he urged, " we have no more cause to show
it than we should if we learned that England were busy
with a Whitsun morris-dance." The Constable of France
Charles d'Albert, was wiser. " Prince, you are mistaken

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 193

Question your ambassadors, and they will tell you how
royally, yet modestly, he received them ; how careful he
showed himself in taking counsel, yet how resolute. These
vanities you speak of are spent and done with." " You are
wrong, my lord," was the Dauphin's reply ; " but there's no
harm in esteeming an enemy more formidable than he seems,
and our defences shall be looked to."

Quick on the heels of the message returned to the
Dauphin, Henry had despatched an embassy of his own,
headed by the Duke of Exeter, bearing his conditions with
documents in support of his claim. He would endure no
delay. He whom we first found rallying Falstaff for want
ing to know the time of day, had now learnt (as Exeter
said) to weigh time even to the uttermost grain. The
Dauphin was for prompt defiance. His father pleaded for
a night's respite. " Despatch us with speed," Exeter in
sisted, " or he will be here in person to know why you are
loitering. Already he and his men have landed." Charles
could find no conditions to stay the invasion already
launched, and the Dauphin had his wish therefore, with
what fatal results to France we are to see.

Henry's fleet had crossed from Southampton with a fair
wind, and made the mouth of the Seine ; and there, at Caux,
he landed his thirty thousand soldiers and marched upon
the town of Harfleur. It was a motley and miscellaneous
army he commanded. English of all ranks and classes were
there, from nobles down to sturdy yeomen, and from these
down to such needy rascals as our friends Bardolph, Pistol,
and Nym. These three worthies owned one page between
them — the boy given by Henry to Falstaff in the old days —
but, indeed, as the lad consoled himself, " three such antics
do not amount to one man." He was not long in discover
ing their arrant cowardice. Bardolph was red-faced, but
white-livered. Pistol had a killing tongue and a quiet
sword ; while as for Nym, " he never broke any man's head
but bis own, and that was against a post when he was

194 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

drunk." Plunder, not fighting, was their game. " Bardolph
stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three
half-pence, Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in
filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel." Rogues all,
and when all was said and done, very futile rogues ! The
lad, being honest as well as shrewd, promised himself a quick
dismissal from such service.

But the ranks were not made up of Englishmen only.
Scotsmen, Irishmen, Welshmen had taken service with
Henry as common soldiers and petty officers, and the shouts
and calls of command under the walls of Harfleur made up
a babel of dialects comic enough for those who listened to
it, but more than merely amusing to us who know of what
this was the beginning ; how men of these races have since
fought side by side, or back to back, with what traditions of
glory and with what splendid results. They were good
fighters even at Harfleur, these men of strange dialects.
There was Captain Fluellen, for instance, a self-conceited,
peppery, and pedantic little Welshman, scolding, arguing,
criticising orders, but sweating and fighting like a hero.
In Captain Fluellen's neighbourhood our London bullies
found it unpleasantly difficult to shirk danger. " Up to the
breach, you dogs !" was his exhortation, backed with blows
of the sword. A moment later would find him wrangling
with the messenger sent by the Duke of Gloucester to fetch
him to the siege-mines. " Tell the Duke it is not so good
to come to the mines ; for, look you, the mines is not
according to the disciplines of the war : the concavities of it
is not sufficient ; for, look you, the adversary, you may dis
cuss unto the Duke, look you, is digg'd himself four yard
under by countermines : I think a' will plow up all, if there
is not better directions." Captain Gower, the messenger,
had to remind him that the siege was being conducted
by the Duke of Gloucester, under the direction of an
Irishman, one Captain Macmorris. " He is an ass. He
has no more directions in the disciplines of the wars, look

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 195

you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy dog !" This
amiable opinion Fluellen had occasion to repeat to Macmorris
himself, who came up at this point. " Captain Macmorris,
I beseech you now, will you vouchsafe me, look you, a few
disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the
disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argu
ment, look you." Macmorris first pleaded that the day was
too hot for argument, and went on to lose his temper, but
without the least effect. " Look you, if you take the matter
otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure
I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in
discretion you ought to use me, look you ; being as good a
man as yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the
derivation of my birth, and in other particularities."

It was the King who controlled these jarring elements
and knit them into an army; the King, now proving himself
a born commander, and not least by the ardour of devotion
his mere presence kindled. Englishman, Welshman, Irish
man, Scot, each caught fire from him. Did he hold them
back ? they stood ready, eager, like greyhounds straining at
the leash. Did he cry them on ? they flung themselves
into the breach again and again, resolute to force it or close
the wall up with their bodies, for he called on their pride of
birth in the name of home and the pastures which had bred
them brave men. He never spared himself. He rode here,
there, everywhere, and as he rode from point to point kept
alive the battle-cry, " God for Harry, England, and St.
George!" around Harfleur.

Moreover, though merciful by nature, he had hardened
his temper to war as every great general must. When
after five weeks' siege he summoned the citizens to the last
parley, there was no lack of sternness in his conditions.
" Submit yourselves, or defy us on certainty of the worst ;
for, as I am a soldier, if you force me to begin the battery
once again, I will not leave Harfleur until she is buried
in her ashes. Before shutting the gates of mercy, I bid you

13—2

196 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

take pity on your town, on your people, while I have my
soldiers in control. Refuse, and you shall see their hands
defiling the locks of your screaming daughters ; your old
men taken by their beards and brained against the walls ;
your babes spitted upon pikes, while their maddened
mothers shriek as the wives of Jewry before King Herod's
slaughterers. Choose, then."

There was no other choice. Hopeless of aid from the
Dauphin, Harfleur flung open its gates. But the city had
been won at terrible cost. Dysentery and fever ravaged
Henry's camp, and his men were falling like sheep. It was
with an army reduced to half its old strength that he deter
mined to follow the example of his great-grandfather Edward
and insult the enemy by a bold march upon Calais. He
found the bridges of the Somme broken down, and the fords
rendered impassable by lines of sharp stakes; but after
some days' delay an unguarded point was discovered high
up the stream, and by forced marches he flung his army
rapidly across, and pressing forward to Blangy, captured by
a sharp skirmish the bridge over the little river Ternoise,
just beyond which, at the village of Agincourt, lay the
French army of more than sixty thousand, barring the road
to Calais.

The bridge was gallantly seized and held. To quote
Fluellen, who esteemed himself a judge, " I assure you there
is very excellent services committed at the pridge. . . .
The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the
pridge ; the French is gone off, look you ; and there is
gallant and most prave passages. . . . The perdition of th'
athversary hath been very great, reasonable great : marry,
for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, but one
that is like to be executed for robbing a church."

This was indeed the unhappy Bardolph. Though his
men were half-starving, Henry had given express orders
that the villages were not to be plundered, nor the inhabi
tants insulted, nor anything taken without payment. He

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 197

presented himself to France, let us remember, not as a ruth
less conqueror but as a lawful sovereign interposing to heal
her dissensions. Towards such an offence as Bardolph's he
was least likely to show mercy, for Bardolph had stolen a
pax.* " A pax of little price," urged his crony Pistol, who
came to persuade Fluellen to make intercession for the thief.
Now Fluellen had been not a little impressed by Pistol's
loud boasting at the bridge, and was inclined to think him a
very valiant soldier ; but he could not stomach indiscipline.
" For if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the
duke to use his good pleasure and put him to execution ; for
discipline ought to be used." Whereupon Pistol fell to
abusing him, and stalked off in a huff. " It is well. Very
good." — Fluellen shrugged his shoulders with much calm.
" Why," said Captain Gower, who stood by, " I remember
that fellow ; an arrant counterfeit rascal and a cutpurse."
" I assure you, a' uttered as prave words at the pridge as
you shall see in a summer's day." " Ay, the kind of rogue
that now and then goes to the wars, to return and swagger
about London as a soldier. Such fellows are pat with the
names of great commanders ; they have the campaign by
heart, and would teach you what happened at such and such
an earthwork, breach, or convoy ; who was shot, who
disgraced ; what terms the enemy stood out for ; they have
it all in the right war-like phrases, which they trick up with
new oaths. You'd hardly believe how far a suit of campaign
ing clothes and a beard cut like a general's will go among
foaming bottles and listeners whose wits ale has washed out
of them !"

But a campaign so grim as this of Henry's was like to
prove sadly fatal to these swashers. Indeed it was fast
thinning the ranks of honester men ; and the French, while
they wondered at Henry's daring, were almost sorry to see
him come on with troops so sick, weary, famished, and (as

* That is, a picture of Christ on a piece of wood or metal, kissed by
worshippers in token of brotherly peace and unity.

198 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

they were bound to believe) dispirited. The glory of beating
him would be the less. They never doubted to have him at
their mercy ; and King Charles sent his herald Montjoy
from Rouen to demand the invader's surrender. " Say thou
to Harry of England " — thus ran the message—" though we
seemed dead, we did but sleep. We could have rebuked
him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an
injury till it were full ripe. Now we speak, and our voice
is imperial. England shall repent his folly, see his weak
ness, and admire our long-suffering. Bid him, therefore,
consider his ransom, which must be proportionate to our
losses in wealth, and men, and the disgrace we have
digested. Our losses he is too poor to repay ; and for our
disgrace his own person, kneeling at our feet, will hardly
give satisfaction. Tell him, for conclusion, that he has
betrayed his followers, whose doom is pronounced."

"Fairly rendered," was Henry's answer to Montjoy.
" Turn back and tell your King I am not anxious to meet
him between this and Calais. To speak frankly, my men
are weakened by sickness, lessened in numbers ; the few
I have scarcely better than so many Frenchmen — nay, God
forgive me ! that was boasting, and I am sorry for it. Tell
your master my ransom is but this body of mine, and my
army a weak and sickly guard for it ; yet, before God, we
will come on, though King Charles and another as mighty
as he stand in our way. If we may pass, we will ; hinder
us, and French blood shall pay for it. We desire no battle ;
but weak as we are we will not shun it."

" I hope they will not come on us now," muttered
Gloucester, the King's brother, when Montjoy had
departed. " We are in God's hand, brother," was Henry's
answer; "not in theirs." He gave the order to cross the
river.

There was very different talk in the French camp. While
Henry spoke of trusting in God, the Dauphin was boasting
of his horse and armour. Says the Psalmist : " Some trust

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 199

in chariots, and some in horses ; but we will remember the
name of the Lord our God." u I will trot to-morrow a
mile," promised the Dauphin, " and my way shall be paved
with English faces." The young French nobles cast dice
for the prisoners they were to take in the morning. The
English, they agreed, were fools ; if they had any apprehen
sion they would run away. " By ten o'clock, let me see,"
said the Duke of Orleans, " we shall have a hundred
Englishmen apiece."

The English had found a camping ground but fifteen
hundred paces from the French outposts. Drenched and
exhausted they lit their watch-fires and cowered over them
to ruminate on the morrow ; so lank and gaunt in their
worn coats that they seemed beneath the moon's rays a
gathering of ghosts rather than of men — a gathering, at any
rate, of men devoted to the sacrifice on which the enemy
counted. So close lay the two camps, that across the belt
of darkness where the outposts listened, between the glow of
the watchfires, each army could hear the other's confused
hum, the horses neighing and challenging, the armourers'
hammers busily closing the rivets for the morning, now
announced to be near by the cocks crowing from unseen
farmsteads along the countryside.

Henry knew even better than his soldiers how nearly
desperate was the prospect for England. Weariness aside,
he was outnumbered by five to one. But in him the greater
danger awoke the greater courage ; nor did his own
weariness prevent him going the rounds before dawn with
his brother Gloucester. " Good-morrow," said he, finding
his other brother, Bedford, upon a like errand ; " there
must be some sort of goodness in evil, for, see, our bad
neighbour makes us early risers, which is both healthful
and thriftful." Then greeting a stout old soldier, Sir
Thomas Erpingham, " A good soft pillow," said he, " were
better for that good white head than the churlish turf of
France." " My liege, I like my lodging better as it is,

200 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

since now I may say, ' I am lodged like a king.' " Henry
borrowed the old knight's cloak, and wrapping himself
close in it went forward alone. He wished to observe
quietly and in disguise those feelings which his men would
be loath to disclose in the presence of their King.

The first sentry to challenge him in this disguise was our
friend Pistol, still chewing his disgust at that unfeeling
man Captain Fluellen. "What's thy name?" demanded
Pistol. " Harry le Roy." " Leroy ? a Cornish name, eh?"
" I am a Welshman," — which was true enough, for Henry's
birthplace was Monmouth. " Knowest thou Fluellen?"
"Yes." "Then tell that leek-eating Welshman I'll knock
his leek about his pate next "St. David's day." "You had
better not wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he
knock that about yours." But Fluellen just now had more
important matters to think about. Presently the King
passed him in earnest talk with his English friend, Captain
Gower; chiding, in fact, Captain Gower for raising his
voice too loudly. " It is the greatest admiration in the
world, when the true and aunchient prerogatives and laws
of the wars is not kept : if you would take the pains but to
examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I
warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble pabble
in Pompey's camp ; I warrant you, you shall find the
ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of
it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be
otherwise." " WThy," pleaded Gower, " the enemy is loud ;
you hear him all night." " If the enemy is an ass and a
fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we
should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating
coxcomb ?" " There is much care and valour in this
Welshman," thought Henry, and passed on unobserved.

But he heard another aspect of war discussed by the
next group he fell in with, a group of three common soldiers
standing and watching the dawn. As he strolled up in the
uncertain light, they asked to what company he belonged.

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 201

" To Sir Thomas Erpingham's." " A good old commander
and a kind-hearted gentleman ; tell us, how does he think
we stand?" "As men wrecked on a sandbank, who look
to be washed off by the next tide." " He has not told the
King so, surely?" " No," replied Henry, " nor is it fitting
he should. For, though I speak it to you, I think the
King is but a man as I am ; a man with a man's senses ; a
man like any other when his royal pomp and rich clothes
are laid by. His feelings may soar higher, maybe ; yet
when they swoop back to earth, they swoop much as ours.
No doubt he tastes fear as we do ; and yet men should be
chary of imparting their fear to him, lest by showing it he
should dishearten his whole army." " He may show what
outward courage he will," growled one of the three, a
fellow named John Bates ; " but I believe, cold as the night
is, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck ! And
I wish he were, and I beside him, so we could win out of this."
" I swear I don't believe the King would wish himself
anywhere but where he is." " Then I would he were here
alone. So would he be ransomed, and a many poor men's
lives saved." " I dare say," said Henry, " you love him
better than to wish any such thing, howsoever you say this
to feel other men's minds. For my part, I could die
nowhere so contentedly as in the King's company, his cause
being just and his quarrel honourable." " That's more
than we know," put in another, Michael Williams by name.
" Ay," said Bates, "and more than we should seek to know.
It's enough that we're his subjects ; if his cause be wrong,
we are only obeying him, and that clears us." " But,"
Williams objected, " if the cause be wrong, the King has a
heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms,
chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day,
and cry all ' We died at such a place !' ; some swearing,
some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor
behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon
their children left without provision. I'm afeard few men

202 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

die well in battle ; for how can they quit themselves in
goodwill towards men while their business is shedding
blood? And if they do not die well, it will be a black
matter for the King who led them to it, and whom they
could not disobey."

" Nay," said Henry, " suppose a son went after merchan
dise by his father's orders, and in his seafaring perished in
a state of sin, by your argument his father must be held
responsible! Or if a servant, carrying money for his
master, be set upon by robbers and killed before he can
make his peace with God, you would call his master to
blame for his soul's damnation ! Not so ; nor in fact can
any king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to be
decided by swords, try it out with unspotted soldiers.
Every subject's duty is the King's ; but every subject's soul
is his own. Therefore, should every soldier in the wars do
as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his
conscience. So, if he die, his death is gain ; and if he do
not, he has lost his time blessedly in gaining such prepara
tion. And in him that escapes it were no sin to think that
God, to whom he made so free an offering of himself, let
him outlive that day to see His greatness and teach others
how they should prepare."

They were honest fellows. " 1 do not desire," said Bates,
" the King should answer for me ; and yet I determine to
fight lustily for him." Yet they could not quite believe
Henry's word that the King would never allow himself to
be ransomed. " Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully;
but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we
never the wiser." Henry rallied the gloomy Williams, and
played at pretending to lose his temper when they jeered at
him — a common soldier — for his impudence in promising
" if I live to see the King ransomed, I'll never trust his
word again." But as he parted from them his spirits felt
suddenly the terrible weight laid upon him. " Yes ; they
laid it all on the King : their lives, their souls, their debts,

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 203

their wives and children, their sins — all on the King ! He
must bear all. To this hard condition greatness is born,
and can never escape from it — to bear the reproach of every
fool who has only sense to feel his own wringing. Kings
must neglect the heart's ease of private men ; yet for what
recompense? Is ceremony a recompense? Let be the
hollowness of it : can it repay a king for the sleep which
slaves enjoy, but he misses upon his gorgeous bed ?"

The moment found him weak, but it was a moment only.
It passed when Sir Thomas Erpingham came with news
that the English nobles were seeking him. " Collect them
at my tent," he commanded ; and falling on his knees he
besought the God of battles to steel the hearts of his
Englishmen — yes, and to forget for this day the sin by
which his father had won the crown. That sin, he knew in
his heart, had not been retrieved ; the blood of Richard was
yet to be answered for. He had done much ; would do
more : the debt of divine wrath must be met, but " Not to
day, O Lord ! O, not to-day !"

And again while he prayed the French were boasting of
their horses and armour. In the gathering light they paraded
sixty thousand strong. The ground favoured them too.
Flanked on either side by thick woods, they showed the
English so narrow a front as to offer nothing to assault but
a pack of men drawn up thirty deep. While they kept that
position they could defy attack, and Henry had no choice
between attack and surrender. Day found his ragged
horsemen already in saddle and planted in face of this host
" like fixed candlesticks," each with a torch in his hand ;
their armour rusty, their horses shrunken in flesh, with a
tell-tale droop of the hindquarters and heads lolling forward
on their fouled bits. And over this spiritless cavalry
wheeled flock upon flock of crows, sinister and impatient.

" They have said their prayers, and they stay for death,"
cried the French Constable.

"God's arm strike for us!" said the pious Earl of

204 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Salisbury among the English Lords ; " the odds are fear
ful." " O," sighed Westmoreland, " that we had here but ten
thousand of those men who stand idle in England to-day !"
Henry overheard him. " I would not have a single man
more ! If we are to die, the smaller loss to England ; if to
live, the greater our share of honour. Before God, as
I love honour I would not have one man more to lessen
the honour of this day's work ! Go, make it known through
the ranks that any man who will may depart ; shall have a
passport home and money to take him. We would not die
in company of that man who fears his willingness to die in
our company. To-day is St. Caspian's feast. I tell you
the man who outlives this day and comes safely home shall
stand an inch higher and feel his heart leap whenever he
hears the name of Crispian ; ay, if he live to see old age,
yearly he shall call his neighbours to feast on this day's
eve, and tell them 'To-morrow is St. Crispian!' — shall
strip back his sleeve, show his scars, ' These wounds I had
on Crispin's day.' Old men forget; yet when all's for
gotten he shall remember and brag of his feats performed
this day ; and then our names — King Harry, Bedford and
Exeter, Warwick, Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester — will
rise to his lips familiar as household words, and as the cup
goes round be freshly remembered. Good man ! he shall
teach his son the tale, and Crispin Crispian never go by
from this day to the world's end but we shall be remembered
in it — we, we happy few, we band of brothers ! For
the man who sheds his blood with me to-day shall be
my brother ; by that raised a gentleman, however low his
estate. And gentlemen now a-bed in England shall curse
themselves that they were not here, and stand abashed when
any man speaks who fought beside me upon St. Crispian's
day !"

Once more before the armies engaged the Constable sent
Montjoy to offer Henry the chance of ransom ; and again
Montjoy carried back a firm refusal. The Duke of York —

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 205

known to us in Richard's reign as Aumerle, but now under
a higher title a better and braver man — craved the honour
of leading the English van. Henry granted it, and for the
last time commending the battle to God, gave the order to
advance.

The English archers bared their breasts and arms for free
play and charged forward with shout. It is likely enough
their charge would have had small effect on the French
defence, had the French been contented to defend. But the
sight of this audacious advance was too much for their
patience ; and, disregarding the Constable's plan of battle,
the dense, heavily-weighted mass of men-at-arms broke
ground and came floundering forward into the open over
the sodden ground ; which they trod into a quagmire. As
they came, Henry called a halt. Each of his archers carried
a sharpened stake ; and now at a word planting a rough-
and-ready stockade, from behind it they poured their arrows
into the throng where no arrow could miss a mark. The
slaughter was terrible ; yet the French blundered on and
by sheer weight drove the archers right and left into the
woods, only to find the deadly rain now pouring on either
flank from behind the trees, among which they could not
pursue. While they swayed mire-bound and exposed to
this cross-fire, Henry flung his heavier troops straight on
their front, himself charging like a hero and setting an
example to all. Once he went down under the blow of a
French mace ; again, while stooping to lift the Duke of
York, felled by a blow of Alen9on's, he took a stroke from
the same hand which shore away a piece of the crown on
his helmet. But the French masses were breaking up.
The first to take to flight was a body of horsemen, some
six hundred in number, who, hearing that the English camp
lay undefended, rode round upon it and through it, pillaging
and hacking down the lackeys and boys who showed fight.
The news of it reached Henry as he drew breath after the
great charge. There was no gentleness in him now.

206 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Stung by this outrage, and perceiving the French cavalry
attempting to rally, he gave the stern order to give no
quarter but kill all prisoners taken.

But the French rally came to nothing. The day was
Henry's, as the herald Montjoy admitted, who came by-and-
by to sue for leave to bury the French dead. " What,"
asked Henry, is the name of the castle standing yonder ?"
" Agincourt." " Then we will name this the field of
Agincourt."

On this field of Agincourt more than ten thousand
Frenchmen lay dead, and among them one hundred and
twenty-six princes and nobles bearing banners. The Con
stable himself had fallen, Chatillon, Admiral of France, the
Duke of Alen9on, felled by Henry's own hand, the Dukes of
Brabant and Bar, the Duke of Burgundy's brother, the
Earls Grandpre, Roussi, Fauconberg, Foix, Beaumont^
Marie, Vaudemont, and Lestrale. The Dukes of Orleans
and Bourbon were prisoners, with fifteen hundred lords,
barons, knights, and esquires, besides common men.
England had lost the Duke of York and the Earl of
Suffolk — they had dropped side by side, and shaken hands
like gallant brothers-in-arms before death parted them ; one
knight, one esquire, and but five-and-twenty rank and file.
" O God, thy arm was here !" cried Henry as his eye fell on
the short list. " Accept this victory, God, for it is thine
only !" He forbade his men, on pain of death, to boast of
their triumph ; even the numbers of the killed were only
to be published with the acknowledgment that God had
fought for England. The army fell into line of march and
moved in procession to the village, there to chant the " Te
Deum" and " Non woiw "— " Not unto us, O Lord, not
unto us, but unto thy Name give glory. . . ."

But England was less disposed to make light of her
soldiers' prowess. Henry's army, too weary to pursue its
victory, made its way unopposed to Calais, and there shipped
for home. Crowds lined the beach at Dover to welcome

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 207

him, and even rushed into the sea to touch his ship. London
poured forth her citizens on Blackheath to fetch home the
victor. Henry behaved throughout as a modest man,
rejecting even the proposal that his battered helmet and
sword should be borne through the city of London before
him. His work was not' done yet. He had struck but the
first blow, if the most effective, and was content for two
years to watch France as between the Burgundians and
Armagnacs she went from bad to worse. For a time the
Emperor Sigismund occupied himself in an attempt to patch
up terms between the two countries, but with no result ;
and in 1417 Henry sailed once more for Normandy, this
time with forty thousand followers.

The discipline of the former campaign had been a stern
discouragement of weeds and wastrels in the English
soldiery. Men of true stuff — Gower, Fluellen, and their
likes — were eager enough to serve again ; Fluellen, for
example, was ready to follow wherever led by his modern
Alexander the Great, or Big, or (as he preferred to pronounce
it) " Pig." Henry was born at Monmouth, and " I think it
is in Macedon where Alexander the Pig is porn. I tell you,
if you look in the map of the 'orld, I warrant you sail find
in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth
that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river
in Macedon ; and there is also moreover, a river at Mon
mouth : it is called Wye at Monmouth ; but it is out of my
prains what is the name of the other river ; but 'tis all one,
'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons
in both." But the day of Sir John FalstafFs merry rascally
crew was over. The march upon Calais had weeded out
Bardolph and Nym— both hanged for pilfering. At home
Dame Quickly lay dying while her husband took ship for
the wars, the last of the gang.

Even for Pistol there was waiting retribution of a sort.
Still nursing his grudge against Fluellen, he had been ill-
advised enough, soon after landing on French soil, to insult

208 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the little Welshman before company by bringing him bread
and salt to eat with his Welsh leek. " It was in a place
where I could not breed no contention with him ; but I will
be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once
again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my
desires."

So Fluellen still wore the leek in his cap, though St.
David's day was long past, and at length he caught his
man. " God pless you, Aunchient Pistol ! you scurvy,
lousy knave, God pless you ! I peeseech you heartily,
scurvy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and
my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek ; because, look you,
you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites
and your digestions doo's not agree with it, I would desire
you to eat it." " Not for Cadwallader and all his goats !"
swore Pistol : " Base Trojan, thou shalt die !" — as Fluellen
fell to and began to cudgel him lustily. " You say very
true ; I sail die when God's will is. In the mean time I
will desire you to live and eat your victuals." Here, still
holding out his raw leek, he banged him again. " I pray
you fall to ; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek."
Pistol began to whine. " Must I eat it ?" " Yes, certainly,
out of doubt, and out, of question too, and ambiguities."
The unhappy man began to nibble. " By this leek I will
most horribly revenge : I eat and eat, I swear — " Eat, I
pray you. Will you have some more sauce to your leek ?"
Seeing Fluellen's cudgel lifted again, he ate obediently.
" Throw none away," insisted Fluellen ; " the skin is good
for your broken coxcomb." He flung the poor wretch a
groat, to heal his pate. Pistol pocketed it and slunk away,
swearing horribly ; slunk away to sink lower as such men
will. We see no more of him. With him, as he goes,
passes the old order of the Boar's Head, Eastcheap.

He who had once been the spoilt child of that order
was now riding at the head of an army from victory to
victory. He stormed Caen, was received by Bayeux,

KING HENRY THE FIFTH 209

reduced Alenson, and Falaise, Avranches and Domfront ;
marched through Evreux, captured Louviers, flung his troops
across the Seine, and sat down before Rouen. This, the
wealthiest of all the cities of France, fell after a long, hideous
siege. " War," said Henry, " has three handmaidens to wait
on her — Fire, Blood, and Famine- I have chosen the meekest
maid of the three." With Rouen fallen, and his kingdom
hopelessly at variance, there remained but one course for
the poor mad King of France. It was the young Duke of
Burgundy who finally, at Troyes, brought about a meeting
between the unhappy Charles and his conqueror. Henry
listened unmoved while the miseries of France were re
counted. The recital over, he laid down his terms like a man
of business. He must be regent of France during Charles's
life ; he must receive the crown as his own upon Charles's
death ; and he must have Charles's daughter Katharine
to wife.

Rather, this last was his first and his capital demand. It
remained to learn what Katharine would say.

She was a lady of great good sense. From the first she
had been curious to hear of this brave soldier from the north
who won battles and spoke a language so barbarous. It
was still as a soldier that he came wooing her. She was
one of his terms of truce ; and between this assurance and
a perception of the ludicrous figure he cut as a wooer with
scarcely a dozen words of French, he performed his court
ship bluntly enough. Katharine could speak English but
a very little better. " Faith, Kate, I am glad of it ; else
thou wouldst find me such a plain king thou wouldst think
I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to
mince it in love, but directly to say ' I love you.' If thou
canst love such a downright fellow, whose face is not worth
sun-burning, and who never looks in his glass for love of
anything he sees there, why well and good. I speak like a
plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me; if
not, I shall not die of it ; and yet I love thee." He essayed

210 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

a French sentence, but broke down in comic despair.
Katharine smiled at his perplexity, and liked him ; and in
this manner the conqueror of France won a French wife,
and a charming one. We met him first as a wild scape
grace youngster, little better than a boy. We have seen
him confirmed, step by step, in strength and a better judg
ment; become a wise king, a God-fearing man, a triumphant
warrior. Here, at the height of achievement, we leave him ;
happily married, worshipped by his subjects, seated on a
throne securely established, and looking forward to a still
more splendid inheritance.

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT

Fayre stood the winde for France,
When we our sailes advance,
Nor now to proue our chance

Longer not tarry,
But put vnto the mayne :
At Kdux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his warlike trayne

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a forte,
Furnish'd in warlike sorte,
Comming toward Agincourte

(In happy houre),
Skermishing day by day
With those oppose his way.
Whereas the Genrall laye

With all his powre.

Which in his height of pride,
As Henry to deride,
His Ransom e to prouide

Vnto him sending ;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vyle,
Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

KING HENRY THE FIFTH

And turning to his men,
Quoth famous Henry then,
" Though they be one to ten

Be not amazed :
Yet haue we well begun ;
Battailes so brauely wonne
Euermore to the sonne

By fame are raysed.

" And for my selfe, (quoth hee)
This my full rest shall bee,
England nere mourne for me

Nor more esteeme me :
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth be slaine ;
Neuer shall she sustaine

Losse to redeeme me.

" Poiters and Cressy tell,

When moste their pride did swell,

Vnder our swords they fell :

Ne lesse our skill is,
Then when our grandsyre greate,
Claiming the regall seate,
In many a warlike feate

Lop'd the French lilies."

The Duke of Yorke soe dread
The eager vaward led ;
With the maine Henry sped

Amongst his hench men.
Excester had the rear,
A brauer man not there.
And now preparing were

For the false Frenchmen.

And ready to be gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum vnto drum did grone,
To heare was woonder ;

211

14—2

212 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake :
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became.
O, noble Erpingham !
That didst the signall frame

Vnto the forces ;
When from a medow by,
Like a storme, sodainely
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

The Spanish vghe [yew] so strong,
Arrowes a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stoong,

Piercing the wether :
None from his death now starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English harts

Stuck close together.

When down theyr bowes they threw,
And foorth theyr bilbowes drewe,
And on the French they flew,

No man was tardy.
Arms from the shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the teeth were rent ;
Downe the French pesants went,

These men were hardye.

When now that noble King,
His broade sword brandishing,
Into the hoast did fling,

As to or'whelme it ;
Who many a deep wound lent,
'His armes with blood besprent,
And many a cruell dent

Brused his helmett.

KING HENRY THE FIFTH

Glo'ster, that Duke so good,
Next of the royall blood,
For famous England stood

With his brave brother :
Clarence in steele most bright,
That yet a maiden knighte,
Yet in this furious fighte,

Scarce such an other.

Warwick in bloode did wade,
Oxford the foes inuade,
And cruel slaughter made

vStill as they ran vp.
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bear them right doughtyly,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

On happy Cryspin day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry.
O ! when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed agen,

Such a King Harry ?

MICHAEL DRAYTOX.

213

KING HENRY THE SIXTH

I

HENRY V. was granted but two years to enjoy his glory.
He lived to see a son born to him ; and with the help of
the young Duke of Burgundy — who since the treacherous
murder of his father by the Armagnacs, had in revenge
flung the full weight of his support on the English side — to
make himself complete master of Northern France to the
banks of the Loire. When, as regent of France and heir
to the crown, he celebrated the feast of Whitsuntide at
Paris in the palace of the Louvre the splendour and gaiety
of his court far outshone that of the real king.

And then, at the height of his fortunes, death claimed him.
What the disease was is not known. It struck swiftly,
baffling the physicians ; and at Vincennes near Paris, on
the ist of September, 1422, Henry died. His body was borne
home in state and laid in the vaults of Westminster Abbey.

While the echoes of his dead march were still rolling
through the Abbey aisles, men's ears caught the murmur
of coming trouble. The inheritor of the two heavy sceptres
of England and France (for the mad King Charles had died .
a few weeks after his conqueror) was an infant nine months
old, whose welfare, with that of England, was placed in the
hands of his uncle Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, as
Protector, and a Council of twenty headed by Henry
Beaufort, Bishop of Winch ster. Another uncle, the Duke
of Bedford — a general only inferior in skill to the dead King
— was made Regent of France.

In other words, the kingly power which Henry IV. had
14

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 215

fought so hardly for, and Henry V. had kept and increased
by his own winning qualities and the fame of foreign
victories, was now by force of circumstances given back
to the great nobles. We shall see how they used it to
wreck their country and in the end to work out their own
perdition. The story we have to tell reminds one of the
house swept and garnished of the Gospel parable. Such a
house the conqueror of Agincourt had prepared ; his sudden
death left it open to a company of evil spirits far " worse
than the first." " The violence and anarchy which had
always clung like a taint to the baronage had received a
new impulse from the war with France. Long before the
struggle was over it had done its fatal work on the mood of
the English noble. His aim had become little more than a
lust for gold, a longing after plunder, after the pillage of
farms, the sack of cities, the ransom of captives. So intense
was the greed of gain, that only a threat of death could keep
the fighting-men in their ranks, and the results of victory
after victory were lost by the anxiety of the conquerors to
deposit their plunder and captives safely at home."*

For a while the firm hand of Bedford kept this mischief
in check. Summoned from the funeral rites of his great
brother by the first of those messengers of disaster whom
in a short time every wind was to bring across the Channel,
he soon gave the French provinces proof that they were
over-hasty in revolting. The Dauphin on his father's death
had at once proclaimed himself King with the title of
Charles VII., but it was long before he saw the end of the
struggle on which he now entered. Still helped by the
Duke of Burgundy, Bedford reduced the North of France
back to its submission, and nobly upheld the honour of
England in the victories of Crevant (1423) and Verneuil
(1424). The latter crushed a daring advance of the French,
who had pushed northward from the Loire, which separated
the English from the French provinces, and offered battle
* Green's Short History of the English People.

216 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

on the very borders of Normandy — most rashly, for they
were hurled back leaving a third of their knighthood on the
field. In this moment of their utter discomfiture Bedford
should have thrown his troops across the Loire.

He did not, and the reason why he did not is to be found
at home. The Protector, "the good" — but certainly not
too good— "Duke Humphrey," was at loggerheads with the
Council from the first, and especially with its president,
Henry Beaufort, a rich, ambitious, and quite unscrupulous
churchman, son of John of Gaunt by a second marriage.
The hatred of these two men broke into fierce words even
over the coffin of the late King. " Cease your wranglings
and live at peace !" Bedford had implored them ; but with
Bedford away in France they paid little heed to his counsel.
By Henry's will Gloucester should have been Regent of
England as well as Protector. By Beaufort's influence in
the Council he was refused the title. The serving men of
the two nobles — Gloucester's in blue and Beaufort's in
tawny livery — never met without a skirmish ; they flourished
clubs and hurled paving-stones in the very streets of London,
to the sore scandal of the Lord Mayor and all peaceable
citizens ; they brawled, and their masters bandied insults and
threats in the presence of the boy-king, who already began
to show a gentle, timorous nature, devout, wishing well to
all men, but weak and quite unfit to rule — least of all to
rule the selfish and turbulent crowd which surrounded him.

Utterly selfish it was, every man in it ; the " good Duke
Humphrey " no less than the rest. Sick of the Protectorate,
in which the Council persistently tied his hands, Gloucester
sought his own ambition abroad. He had married Jacque
line of Bavaria, the divorced wife of the Duke of Brabant,
and claimed a large portion of the Netherlands as her in
heritance. The Duke, her first husband, opposed this claim,
and was supported by the Duke of Burgundy, who looked
upon himself as Brabant's heir. For Gloucester to persist
in his claim meant estranging the Duke of Burgundy from

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 217

the English alliance, a most serious loss. But England's
interest came second to her Lord Protector's. He himself
soon had enough of the struggle ; but it dragged on for three
years, and meanwhile Bedford had to sit helpless before the
chance of a splendid success, and watch his late allies the
Burgundians marching away from him to fight his brother.
Even without them he might have done much, had the
quarrels of Gloucester and Beaufort at home allowed them
time to provide him with the supplies of men and money he
begged for. It was riot until 1428 that, peace being restored
in Holland and the Duke of Burgundy once more free to help
his old allies, it was resolved to push southward across the
Loire and reduce the provinces owning the sway of Charles.

The English had let their golden opportunity slip ; but
for all their fortunate delay the plight of the Dauphin, as
we may yet call him, was very nearly desperate. As his
first step, Bedford laid siege to Orleans, and while he
invested it with ten thousand men Charles had to look on
and own himself powerless to relieve the city. The besieged
themselves lay under a spell of terror, cowed, as it were, by
the names of Bedford and his two gallant lieutenants, the
Earl of Salisbury and Lord Talbot. Behind the English
all the North of France, as far eastward as the border of
Lorraine, lay ravaged and starving, the crops burnt, the
peasantry destitute.

It was from Domremy, a village near that Lorraine
border, that, while Orleans meditated surrender and Charles
had shut himself up at Chinon to weep helplessly, help arose
for France ; a girl to put courage into a nation of men, a saint
to match her unselfish devotion against the utter selfishness
guiding the counsels of England, and against all expectation,
almost against hope, to perform the miracle and win.

Jeanne d'Arc, or Joan of Arc, as we call her, was a
shepherd's daughter in this village of Domremy, at the foot
of the wooded slopes climbing towards the Vosges mountains.
She was a dreamy child, fond of wandering alone in these

218 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

woods, and making friends with the birds and wild creatures
she met ; the folk at home saw nothing more in her than
" a good girl, simple and pleasant in her ways," fonder of
indoor tasks than of work in the fields, tender towards all
suffering, very devout, a child living very near to God, and
loving Him passionately.

The war, of which she had heard echoes in the talk of the
villagers, but very vague echoes, came sweeping by Dom-
remy at length. Then she knew what it meant, saw the
ruin and misery it left in its wake, and while she nursed
the wounded her heart swelled with pity for France.

It seems a little thing, pity in the heart of one peasant
girl among thousands who saw this war and suffered from
it. But there lies the miracle ; it was a little thing. While
she brooded she recalled an old prophecy that a maid from
the Lorraine border should arise and save the land. In her
walks now she saw visions — the mother of God walking
between the trees ; St. Michael standing in a slant of light
between the green boughs and calling on her to save
France ; there was pity in Heaven (said he) for the fail-
realm of France. How might she save France ? " Messire,
I am but a poor maiden ; I know not how to ride to the
wars or to lead men-at-arms." She thought with shudder
ing of warfare and wounds ; she shrank even from facing
the rough men of the camp with their coarse greetings and
brutal oaths. Yet her duty led thither, and lay plain before
her — " I must go to the King." Her parents threatened,
the villagers mocked her. " It is no will of mine to go,"
she pleaded ; " I had far rather stay here among you. But
I must go to the King, even if I wear my legs to the knees."
At length the captain of the near town of Vaucouleurs took
her by the hand, and swore to lead her to Charles. At
Chinon the Churchmen refused to believe in her mission,
but she won her way to the Dauphin at length, and he
received her in the midst of his despairing nobles. " Gentle
Dauphin," said she, " my name is Joan the Maid. The

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 219

heavenly King sends me to tell you that you shall be
anointed and crowned in the town of Rheims, to be
lieutenant of Himself who is the King of France."

Had his case been only a little less desperate, the
Dauphin would no doubt have dismissed her lightly. As
it was, his French were so completely cowed by past
defeats, and stood in such awe of the very names of mad-
brained Salisbury and Talbot who, made prisoner in an
engagement when the odds against him were four to one,
had effected his ransom, and taken the field again more
fiercely than ever, that even though the English before
Orleans numbered but three thousand, the swarms of
soldiery in the starving city dared not come out and fight.
The coming of Joan broke this spell. Riding at the head
of ten thousand men, clad cap-a-pie in white armour, with
the great white banner of France studded with fieur-de-lys
waving above her, she appeared to the citizens of Orleans
as an angel from heaven. " I bring you," she told Dunois,
the commander of the besieged, as "he sallied out to greet
her, " the best aid ever sent, the aid of the heavenly King."
Scarcely opposed, she rode in through the gates and round
the walls, bidding the citizens look on the ring of English
forts and fear them no longer. The French Generals
plucked up heart and marched out to the attack. Salisbury
had already fallen, killed by a shot as he surveyed Orleans
from one of the forts. Talbot fought like a lion, but was
utterly outnumbered. The French reduced fort after fort.
Joan herself fell wounded before the last and strongest.
They carried her into a vineyard, and Dunois would have
sounded the retreat. " Not yet ! As soon as my standard
touches the walls you shall enter the fort." It touched,
and the French burst in. Orleans was saved.

Talbot, however, was not the leader to be daunted by
a single reverse, nor could the spell his prowess had built
up be destroyed so summarily. Famous stories gathered
about his name as they now began to gather about Joan.

220 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

One ran that the Countess of Auvergne, professing a wish
to see and speak with so renowned a warrior, invited him
to pay her a visit and accept the hospitality of her castle.
Talbot obeyed, and arriving was led to the Countess, who
had given orders to lock and bar all the doors behind him.
" What ! is this the man ?" was her greeting. " Is this the
redoubtable Talbot, the scourge of France ? I looked to
have seen a Hercules, or a Hector at least ; not this puny
fellow." "Madam," answered Talbot, but moderately
abashed, " it is plain that I have come at an unwelcome
moment ; I must take leave of you and choose some fitter
occasion." " Take leave ? No, my lord, excuse me, you
are my prisoner." Talbot laughed. " Your ladyship
should have chosen Talbot's substance, not his shadow, to
treat so severely." " Why, are you not Talbot ?" " I am
indeed ; and yet but the shadow of Talbot. As for his
substance — He put his horn to his lips and blew, and
at once, with beat of drums, his soldiers came bursting
through the gates and poured into the castle. " These,
madam, are Talbot's substance." The discomfited lady
sued for mercy. " Nay, you have not offended me. Some
food and wine for my soldiers will be satisfaction enough."

A warrior of this humour will hardly be persuaded that
he is beaten. Even after Joan had entered Orleans with
colours flying, in the midst of the French rejoicings Talbot
with his handful of English had escaladed the walls by
night and fought his way to the market-place. The death
of Salisbury, the hero of thirteen battles, called upon him
to be avenged. He had read this command on the face of
his great comrade as he bent over him ; and over the body,
which had been carried up the scaling-ladder and advanced
to the middle of the great square, he could claim that his vow
had been paid by the death of five Frenchmen for every drop
of Salisbury's blood. Forced from the town, and at length (as
we have seen) from the forts surrounding it, by overwhelming
numbers, he withdrew his troops northward in good order.

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 221

Until reinforcements arrived he was powerless. But the
French generals still feared him heartily, and, remembering
Verneuil, would have remained inactive on the Loire. Joan
refused to hear of this. Her mission was not yet over ;
and while the English waited around Paris she left the
river at Giens and marched through Troyes, her army
growing as it advanced, to Rheims. Here, with the corona
tion of Charles, she felt that her promise had been fulfilled.
" The pleasure of God is done," she said, kneeling at the
King's feet, and besought leave to go home. She. was told
that she could not be spared yet.

Though far differently inspired, these soldiers of France
and England thought first of their duty ; Joan following a
heavenly vision, Talbot fighting under no such lofty enthu
siasm, but doggedly and as a man should who loves his
country. The selfishness lay at home in England with the
wrangling nobles who kept him short of supplies ; and
among these was one whose growing ambitions, secretly
nursed as yet, were to cost England even more dear than
the disputes which already weakened her fighting arm.

We have seen that when Henry IV. deposed Richard
and seized the throne, he was not the true heir to it even
after Richard's death. The true heirship rested with the
Mortimers, descended from Edward III.'s third son, Lionel,
Duke of Clarence ; whereas the house of Lancaster de
scended from his fourth son John of Gaunt. This fault in
their succession they had cause enough to bear in mind,
and fear that one day it would come to be paid for. It had
been in Henry's mind when he prayed before Agincourt,
" Not to-day, O Lord !"

The day, though for long averted, was coming. The
last of the Mortimers, Earls of March, lay wasting to death
in the Tower of London ; but his sister, Ann Mortimer,
had married Richard, Earl of Cambridge, son of the old
Duke of York who so feebly defended the kingdom from
Bolingbroke ; and thus in her son, Richard Plantagenet,

222 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

were united the two lines of Mortimer and York, both
derived from Edward III., and the elder claiming the true
succession to the throne.

He was heir, too, to a great revenge ; for his father, the
Earl of Cambridge, had been one of the three whose
treason Henry V. had discovered on the eve of sailing from
Southampton* (and we can guess at what the husband of
Ann Mortimer would be aiming). His death and attainder
left his son without title ; but Richard meant to get his
title and his revenge too, in time.

Meanwhile he must walk warily, for to all appearances
the odds were heavy against him. The house of Lancaster
had possession — which is proverbially nine points of the«
law — and a record of three reigns in unbroken succession,
one at least a reign of which England was proud. For all
their differences, the rulers of the state were Lancastrian to
a man, and Lancastrian by birth. Gloucester and Bedford
were the King's uncles. Beaufort, now created a Cardinal,
was a son of John of Gaunt, and only a little below him in
influence came another Beaufort, his nephew the Duke of
Somerset. These Beauforts, moreover, had a game of their
own to play. Though belonging to a junior branch of
Lancaster, and barred from the succession by a special
clause in the Act which confirmed the marriage of John of
Gaunt with their ancestress Katharine Swynford, they had
hopes that, should the young King leave no heir, their
claim would be made good.f The Beauforts, therefore,

* See p. 190.

f The following table will illustrate the hopes of the Beauforts :

HOUSE OF LANCASTER.

Blanche of Lancaster. =f John of Gaunt, Duke of =f= Katharine Swynford.

Lancaster.
Henry IV.

I I John Beaufort, Henry Beaufort,

Henry V. Duke of Glou- Duke of Bed- Earl of Somerset. Bishop of Winches-

| cester (childless;, ford (childless). | ter and Cardinal.

Henry VI. John Beaufort,

Duke of Somerset.

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 223

were the last to whom Richard could look for help. There
remained two powerful nobles, who might or might not be
of service to him — the Earls of Suffolk and Warwick.
Both were astute, ambitious, selfish ; each sought his own
increase and sought it along his own path. It remained
for Richard to see if those paths would run for a time
with his.

A quarrel with the young Earl of Somerset in the Temple
Hall — " where now the studious lawyers have their bowers "
— brought this to the test. No fitter spot could have been
found for setting forward Richard Plantagenet's claim,
which rested on law. Stung by a taunt of the heir of the
Beauforts in the presence of Suffolk, Warwick, and others,
Richard lost control of his tongue and spoke boldly of his
rights. The argument grew loud, and at Suffolk's sug
gestion they left the hall and walked out into the quiet
garden by the river, where each disputant appealed in turn
to his hearers. But the hearers felt they were on ticklish
and dangerous ground. Suffolk evaded Richard's appeal.
" Faith," said Warwick, " ask me to judge between two
hounds, two swords, two horses, two girls, and I may have
something to say ; but these nice sharp quillets of the law
are beyond me." " Since you are tongue-tied then," said
Richard, " leave words alone and proclaim your thoughts
by token. Let him who values his birth as a true-born
gentleman, if he believes there is truth in my plea, join me
in plucking a white rose off this briar." " Ay," answered
Somerset, " and let him who is neither coward nor flatterer,
but dares to take sides with truth, pluck here a red rose
with me." Warwick plucked a white rose, Suffolk a red.
A gentleman called Vernon who stood by chose a white
rose, and a lawyer of the party did the same ; " for," said
he, " unless my study and my books tell me false, the Earl
of Somerset's argument will not hold." "Now where is
your argument ?" Richard asked tauntingly. " Here in
my scabbard," answered Somerset; " and it meditates that

224 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

which shall dye your white rose crimson." The dispute
broke out afresh, and Warwick and Suffolk found them
selves drawn into it. Somerset took his stand on the death
and attainder of Richard's father. Richard insisted that his
father had been no traitor, " and that I will prove on better
men than Somerset." The champions of the red rose with
drew from the garden, uttering defiance. " This slur they
cast on your house," promised Warwick, " shall be wiped
out speedily. The King has summoned his Parliament to
patch up a truce between Gloucester and Beaufort ; and if
he do not then and there make thee Duke of York, my name
shall no longer be Warwick." Pinning on their wThite roses,
Richard's supporters left the garden.

Warwick was as good as his word. But before Parlia
ment met, Richard had visited the Tower and received a
blessing from the lips of his dying uncle Mortimer. The
unhappy prisoner, whose youth had flowered and wasted
behind bars, rehearsed the woes of his house. " I am
childless, dying ; thou art my heir, but tread warily. I ask
for no mourning, only see to my funeral. And so farewell,
depart with fair hopes and prosper !"

Death had quenched Edmund Mortimer's " dusky torch "
before his nephew hurried to the Parliament House, where
the young King was attempting once more the endless busi
ness of reconciling Gloucester and the Cardinal. This time
he indeed persuaded them to shake hands, but only after an
open brawl which proved how little they respected their
sovereign's presence ; and the Cardinal, at any rate, had no
intention of keeping his promise. Richard's turn came after
this difficulty had been composed. Warwick presented a
petition for his restoration to title and inheritance; the
Protector joined in urging it. Henry gave way readily. " I
grant it, with all the inheritance belonging to the house of
York." Richard vowed obedience till death. " Stoop, then ;
set your knee against my foot. For this homage I gird thee
with the sword of thy house, and bid thee rise, Duke of York."

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 225

Henry had a special reason just now for desiring concord
among his nobles, being on the point of crossing the sea to
Paris, there to be crowned King of France in answer to
Charles's coronation at Rheims. But their amity was as
insincere and short lived as the homage of York, between
whom and Somerset the feud of the two roses broke out in
sharp words during the hollow ceremony.

No ceremony could have been hollower, for the English
cause in France was doomed already, and soon to be doubly
doomed by a hateful crime. Joan of Arc had been detained
in the French court while the towns in the north opened
their gates to Charles. But Bedford, relieved by the efforts
of Cardinal Beaufort, who poured his own wealth into the
English treasury to raise fresh troops, took the offensive in
his turn and drove Charles back behind the Loire, while the
Duke of Burgundy set about reducing the revolted towns.
This new call brought Joan upon the scene again. Her
mission from God had ended, as she felt, at Rheims. But
she could be brave still, and she still led the French ranks
gallantly, until in a sortie from the city of Compiegne she
was pulled from her horse by an archer and made prisoner.
Her captors sold her to Burgundy, and he in his turn to the
English. To them she was a sorceress and her triumphs
procured by the Evil One. After a year's imprisonment
she was tried as a witch before an ecclesiastical court pre
sided over by the Bishop of Beauvais. Their questions
failed to entangle her. They forbade her the mass. " Our
Lord can make me hear it without your aid," she told them,
weeping. That she was a witch she denied to the last.
" God has always been my Lord in all that I have done.
The devil has never had any power over me." In the end
they condemned her. A pile of faggots was raised in the
market-place of Rouen, where her statue stands to-day.
The brutal soldiers tore her from the hands of the clergy
and hurried her to the stake, but their tongues fell silent at
her beautiful composure. One even handed her a cross he

15

226 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

had patched together with two rough sticks. She clasped
it as the flames rose about her. " Yes!" she cried ; " my
voices were of God!" and with those triumphant words the
head of this incomparable martyr sank on her breast. " We
are lost," muttered an English soldier standing in the crowd;
" we have burned a saint."

Burgundy, who had sold her, was already wavering.
Very tenderly Joan had pleaded with him in a parley for
France, and against the unnatural wounds he inflicted on
France. " Consider her, thine own country, France once
so fertile ! Consider her towns and cities defaced, her wast
ing ruin. As a mother looks on her dying babe, so look
upon France as she pines to death." And to Burgundy her
words might well have brought echoes of a day when he
himself had pleaded for France with Henry V., painting the
decay of her husbandry and the savage misery of her in
habitants. It had taxed all the diplomacy of Beaufort to
pin him so long to the English cause. But even the
Cardinal's persuasions failed in the end, and soon after
Joan's death the Duke deserted back to Charles, This
blow was followed by a second and yet more fatal one in
the death of Bedford. Paris rose, drove out its garrison of
English, and declared for Charles. The English possessions
shrank at once to Normandy, portions of Anjou and Picardy,
and Maine. At home the policy of England was distracted
between Gloucester, who strove to continue the war, and
Suffolk, who, following his own ambitious career, had
become master of the Council when age and infirmity forced
Beaufort to give over the active conduct of affairs, and was
now scheming for peace. Abroad, York had succeeded
Bedford as Regent of France, but was hampered at every
turn by his deadly foe, Somerset. If Talbot, now Earl of
Shrewsbury, had been supported, our tale might have been
a different one. He fought a hopeless cause with magnifi
cent courage, at one time fording the Somme with the waters
up to his chin to relieve Crotoy, at another forcing the

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 227

passage of the Oise in face of a whole French army. Driven
from Normandy, which in 1450 was wholly lost, he sailed
for the south and landed in Gascony. Twenty thousand
men should have followed to reinforce him, but were delayed,
and while Somerset hung back in spite against York, Talbot
found himself confronted before Bordeaux by an overwhelm
ing army of French. " The feast of death is prepared,"
said he ; and turning to his son, young John Talbot, bade
him mount his swiftest horse and escape. Hotly the young
man refused. "Is my name Talbot ? Am I your son, and
you ask me to fly ?" " To stay means death for both of us."
" Then let me be the one to stay. By flight I can save
nothing of Talbot but will be a shame to me." Father and
son embraced and made ready to die together. Far from
help, yet not too far if Somerset had made haste with his
cavalry, the fighting Earl saw his troops mown down in
swathes by the French cannon, and charging into the press
rescued his son from the sword of Orleans. " Art not weary,
John ? There is time yet. Fly and avenge me." " Talbot's
son," was the answer, " will die beside Talbot." In the
next charge the Earl fell, and the lad rushed forward after
his assailants. Some soldiers brought back his body and
laid it in the arms of his dying father. " Now I am content.
My old arms are my boy's grave." So passed indignant
from France to heaven the last surviving spirit of Agincourt
Elsewhere the end had been ignoble enough. The young
King — had his will counted — detested the war. To his
pious and contemplative nature such strife between peoples
of one faith was abhorrent. Gloucester, awake at length to
the hopelessness of the struggle, was for accepting the
intervention of the Pope and the Emperor, concluding
peace on good terms, and sealing it by a marriage between
Henry and the daughter of the Earl of Armagnac. This,
however, did not suit his opponent, Suffolk, who had a
scheme of his own for marrying Henry to Margaret,
daughter of Reignier Duke of Anjou and titular King of

15—2

228 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Naples — a beautiful and almost penniless lady with whom,
indeed, Suffolk himself had fallen more than half in love.
In wooing her for his sovereign his tongue now and then
spoke for his own heart. But if fond, he was above all
things ambitious. Her being Queen of England would not
prevent his paying court to her, while it would give her
power to support his schemes. Reignier was a grasping
father and drove a hard bargain, naming nothing less as the
price of the match than the cession of Anjou (which by this
time was not England's to give) and Maine, which Suffolk
knew well to be the key of Normandy. To Suffolk this
weighed little in comparison with his private advantage.
He posted back to England and plied Henry and the
Council with his praises of Margaret's beauty. Gloucester
was outvoted again, and the contract with the Earl of
Armagnac broke off. Henry listened wearily to their
wrangling. "I am sick," said he, "with too much think
ing." He had lost his father's conquests. Even the great
southern province which had belonged to England ever
since Henry II. had married Eleanor of Aquitaine was
preparing to pass from him. If peace could be purchased
by ceding Anjou and Maine, he was ready to spare them.
Marriage he did not desire, yet (as he told Gloucester)
would be content with any choice tending to God's glory
and England's welfare. His mind, utterly irresolute, was
sensitive enough to be distracted by these perpetual quarrels ;
and in this condition, as weak men will, he decided suddenly,
almost pettishly ; despatched Suffolk to France to arrange
the betrothal with Margaret ; in the very act of disregarding
his advice, begged Gloucester to excuse this sudden enforce
ment of " my will " ; and withdrew from the Council to shut
himself up and meditate on the cares which afflict a king.

So Suffolk departed triumphant, following a vision of still
greater personal triumphs. Margaret should be Queen and
rule Henry ; but Suffolk should rule her, and through her
the King and the whole realm.

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 229

II

But one thing Suffolk had left out of account, the temper
of the English people. He and his peers might treat the
national honour as a chattel to be bartered for their
private ends ; but the mass of his countrymen had learnt
under Henry V. to be proud of England, and this pride
broke into furious resentment when they saw her greatness
dishonoured by weak hands and trafficked away with a
selfish unconcern. Duke Humphrey might be an imperfect
patriot, but he was for continuing the fight rather than
surrendering on such terms. When Suffolk brought
Margaret home to London in state, the Protector's voice
faltered as he read over the contract. At the clause ceding
Anjou and Maine he fairly broke down.

The Cardinal, Suffolk's chief supporter, took the scroll
from him and read on. Henry listened, professed himself
well pleased with the bargain, and made Suffolk a duke for
his services. He had no sooner withdrawn, however, with
Margaret and her conductor to prepare for the coronation,
than Duke Humphrey found speech. "What! was it for
this my brother Henry spent all — his youth, his valour,
money, and men, — lodging in the open field, winter and
summer, to conquer France ? Was it for this my brother
Bedford laboured with his wits to keep what Henry had
won ? Yourselves — Somerset, Buckingham, York, Salis
bury, Warwick — have earned honourable scars, while the
Cardinal and I have sat toiling in Council early and late,
and all to keep France. Is this to be the undoing and
shameful end of your prowess and our policy ?"

He had England behind him in speaking so ; but the
conscience of Englishmen had not yet discovered how to
make itself heard. For the moment he spoke to men of
opposing aims, and they listened with very different minds.
Beaufort, his old enemy, openly censured his boldness ; but
then Beaufort's interest lay with the King's party and the

230 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

new favourite, Suffolk. Somerset and Buckingham (another
duke of the blood royal, descended from Thomas of
Gloucester, the youngest of Edward III.'s sons) distrusted
the Cardinal as their rival in craft, but were more concerned
just now in hating and scheming against Duke Humphrey,
the actual Protector, and were ready to join forces to pull
him down from his seat. That Somerset took one side was
reason enough for York's taking the other. But York,
we must remember, considered himself the rightful heir to
the throne, and that these were his dukedoms which Suffolk
had given away. Warwick and his father Salisbury,* as
supporters of York, were angry on his account, and also
indignant at the loss of provinces they had helped to win.

For the moment,, then, these diverse factions fall into
two. On the one hand we see Gloucester, supported by
York, Salisbury, and Warwick, all indignant at the King's
marriage and the bargain it stood for, and representing in
this the general silent feeling of England. On the other we
have Suffolk, who made the bargain, favoured by the
Queen, upheld by the Cardinal, and joined by Somerset and
Buckingham, for the present purpose of unseating and
destroying Gloucester.

And for the moment this second party could use the King's
favour, and so held the upper hand. The stroke against
Duke Humphrey must be dealt, and quickly ; but how ?
They found their opening in the indiscretion of his second
wife, Eleanor Cobham. This aspiring dame was guessed,

* To show the descent of the King-maker, we may extend the table
given on p. 222, thus—

John of Gaunt-pKaiharine Svvynford.

John Beaufort,
Earl of Somerset.

John Beaufort,
Duke of Somerset.

Henry Beaufort,
the Cardinal.

Joan Beaufort^ Ralph Nevil, Earl of
Westmoreland.

Richard,
Earl of Salisbury.

Richard,
Earl of Warwick (King -maker).

. KING HENRY THE SIXTH 231

and shrewdly enough, to nurse ambitions which flew higher
than her husband's. She was a good hater, at any rate, and
found a hater to match her in the young Queen, with whom
she soon started a fierce quarrel. It maddened Margaret
to see Gloucester's wife parading the Court with a troop of
ladies and a duchy's revenue on her back, flaunting her
riches, and not careful to hide her disdain of the penniless
upstart from Anjou. She had boasted (so Margaret heard)
that the train of her meanest gown outvalued all the Duke
Reignier's estates. It was a woman's quarrel, and the storm
burst in a very feminine fashion. Somerset and York were
quarrelling again; this time over their claims to be regent
over what remained of French territory. York, who had
held the office, looked to be reappointed. Somerset opposed
him. Duke Humphrey supported York. "Why should
Somerset be preferred ?" was the natural question urged by
the Protector's party. " Because," answered Margaret im
periously, " the King will have it so." " Madam," replied
Gloucester, " if so, the King is old enough to speak for him
self." " Then," came the retort, " if he be old enough, he
does not need you for Protector." "At his pleasure," said
Gloucester, " I am ready to resign." " Resign then !"
broke out the tongues of his enemies in turn — Suffolk,
the Cardinal, Somerset, Buckingham, the Queen herself.
Gloucester choked down his rage for the moment and with
drew, not trusting himself to speak. His Duchess remained.
Margaret dropped her fan. " My fan, if you please!" she
commanded, and, as the Duchess delayed to pick it up,
caught her a box in the ear ; then, feigning to have mistaken
her for a maid-in-waiting, " I cry you mercy, madam. Was
it you ?" The Duchess flounced out promising vengeance.
She meant it too. But Suffolk had already prepared a
trap for her, and when the Queen complained impatiently
of her husband's subjection, Suffolk could promise a speedy
deliverance. " I tell thee, De la Pole," Margaret confessed,
" when I saw thee at Tours riding a tilt in my honour, and

232 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

stealing away the French ladies' hearts, I thought thy
master had been as brave and handsome and as gallant a
wooer. But his thoughts are all given over to holiness.
His beads and his sacred books are more to his taste than
tilt-yard and weapons, and saints' images all the lady-loves
he cares for." She stamped her foot. " I wish to Heaven
the Cardinals' College would elect him Pope and carry him
off to Rome !" Suffolk besought her to be patient. " And
as for the Duchess," he promised, " I have limed a bush for
that bird. When I have caught her, as I presently shall,
never fear that she'll mount again to trouble you."

Eleanor Cobham, in fact, had over-reached herself. Since
her husband would not make a snatch at the crown, she
had set her own wits to work, and tempted by an oppor
tunity which Suffolk cunningly threw in her way, had called
in the help of sorcery. She was now, as her enemy knew,
consulting with Margery Jourdain, a witch, a conjurer
named Bolingbroke, and two priestly confederates, Hume
and Southwell. Hume was actually in Suffolk's pay ; the
rest, it is most likely, were but foolish impostors, who made
a living by trading on superstitious folks. To such knaves
the rich Duchess would be a gold mine, if only they could
keep her bemused by jugglery and specious prophesying.
Unfortunately for them Suffolk proved as prompt in striking
as he was careless of what became of his tools after they
had served him. As soon as ever he felt the moment ripe
he used his information and despatched York and Bucking
ham with a guard to Duke Humphrey's London house.
They broke into the garden and surprised the victims in the
midst of their incantations — Margery Jourdain and Boling
broke pretending to raise the Spirit of Evil, while Southwell
took down its answers, and the Duchess, with Hume,
watched from a balcony. " Lay hands on these traitors
and their trash !" commanded York ; and then glancing
aloft, " What ! You there, madam ? The King and common
wealth are deeply indebted to you for these pains of

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 233

yours !" The papers seized by the guard contained the
following prophecies :

(1) Of the King—

" The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose ;
But him outlive, and die a violent death."

(2) Of Suffolk—

" By water shall he die, and take his end."

(3) Of Somerset —

" Let him shun castles."

To seek information concerning the King's death was
plainly treasonable. York marched his captives to prison,
and despatched Buckingham post-haste to St. Albans,
where he found Henry hawking and distracted as usual in
the midst of his sport by the quarrelling peers, of whom
Gloucester and the Cardinal were at the moment within an
ace of coming to blows. Buckingham's news, as may be
supposed, wholly confounded the Protector, and fetched the
King hurriedly back to London to inquire into the Duchess's
treason. There was, of course, no defence ; the culprits
had been taken red-handed. Henry pronounced judgment,
sentencing Margery Jourdain to be burned at Smithfield,
Bolingbroke, Southwell, and Hume to be hanged, while the
Duchess — saved from the worst by her noble birth — was
condemned to do three days' open penance through the
streets of London, and then to live in banishment in the
Isle of Man, under care of the governor, Sir John Stanley.

The day of her penance came, horrible alike for her and
for Duke Humphrey, who on hearing her condemnation
had knelt and with tears rendered up his Protector's staff
into the King's hands. In mourning dress, with his attendants
in black about him, the unhappy husband waited and watched
the street along which his wife came in her degradation.
She came bare-footed, draped in a white sheet pinned with
insulting placards, holding a taper alight. A jeering crowd
followed her. " Are you come, my lord, to look on my open

234 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

shame ? It is penance for thee too." She pointed back at
the crowd. " Ah ! Gloucester, hide from their hateful
looks!" "Patience, Nell!" the poor Duke pleaded; "be
patient and forget this grief." " Teach me, then, to forget
myself. For while I think I am thy wife, and thou art a
prince and ruler of England, methinks I should not be led
along thus ! Ah, Humphrey ! can I bear it ? Believest
thou I shall ever look forth on the world again and deem
it happy to see the sun ! To remember what I was — there
will lie the hell : to say ' I am Duke Humphrey's wife.
He was a prince and a ruler of England ; yet so ruled and
was such a prince that he stood by whilst I, his duchess,
was made a shameful jest for the street.' No!" she went
on bitterly, " be mild as ever ! Do not blush at it ! Stir at
nothing until the axe of death hang over thine own neck —
as it will ! For Suffolk, all in all with her who hates thee
and all of us, and York, and the false Cardinal, have set the
snare for thy feet. Go thy way, trusting as ever, and never
seek to prevent them !"

But Gloucester would not believe. " I must offend before
I can be attainted. Had I twenty times the foes I have ;
had each of them twenty times his present power, I cannot
be harmed while I rest loyal, true, without crime. I beseech
thee, Nell, be patient, and leave this to wear itself quickly
away !"

While he talked with her a herald arrived to summon
him to the King's Parliament, fixed to be held at Bury
St. Edmunds on the first of the next month. u The date fixed !
My consent not asked !" — Duke Humphrey forgot that he
was Protector no longer. " This is close dealing," mused
he, but prepared to obey. Hastily husband and wife took
their sorrowful farewells and parted ; she towards her exile,
he for Bury St. Edmunds, where before his arrival his
enemies were arranging his downfall.

For while Henry wondered at his delay in coming,
Margaret, Suffolk, the Cardinal, and Buckingham were

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 235

together poisoning his ear with evil charges and worse
hints against the late Protector. " Should Henry die now
and without child, Gloucester would be next heir to the
throne." " It was he who must have set his wife upon her
devilish practices." To come to more definite charges :
'•He had taken bribes from France." "As Protector he
had visited small offences with savage punishments." "He
had levied money to pay the armies in France and had
never sent it." It was York who brought this last charge ;
for although York had disclosed his aims to Salisbury and
Warwick, and although they had secretly sworn to make
him King of England, he saw more clearly than they that
Duke Humphrey's fate was now sealed, and the time had
come to abandon him. Between them the plotters so
wrought on the weak King, that when Gloucester entered
at length and, wishing the King health, prayed to be
forgiven his delay, Suffolk felt able to step forward boldly
and arrest him of high treason. Duke Humphrey did not
blench. " A clean heart is not easily daunted," said he, and
denied, as he honestly could, the charges his enemies now
repeated against him. " I never robbed the soldiers of any
pay, nor have ever received one penny from France as bribe.
So help me God, I have watched night after night studying
good for England ! If I have stolen one doit from the King,
or hoarded one groat of his for my own use, let it be brought
against me in fair trial. Nay, rather than tax the poor com
mons, I have poured out my own money to pay the garrisons,
and never asked for repayment. As for my punishment of
offenders, it is notorious that my fault, if any, was too great
clemency." Suffolk cut him short. " These are trifles. It
is for heavier crimes I arrest you, and hand you over to my
Lord Cardinal here, who will keep you until your trial."
The hunted man turned to Henry, but Henry could give
little help. " My lord," said he, " it is my especial hope
that you will clear yourself of all these suspicions ; for my
conscience assures me you are innocent." " Ah, my liege !

236 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

I know that they want my life; and if my death could make
England , happy they would be welcome to it. But my
death is the prologue only. Thousands, who as yet suspect
nothing, will die and yet not conclude the tragedy here
plotted. I see the Cardinal's malice in his red ferret eyes ;
Suffolk's brow clouded with hate ; I hear Buckingham's
sharp tongue unloading his envy ; York dogged as ever —
York whose ambitious arm I have held back from the moon
he would grasp — levelling false charges against my life. And
you, my sovereign lady " — he turned to Margaret — " have
joined them in stirring up my true liege to hate me. Oh, I
have had notice of your meetings, your conspiracies ! I
shall not lack false witnesses to condemn me!"

Henry stood powerless while the Cardinal's guards hurried
away their prisoner ; then he moved sadly towards the door.
" My lords, I leave it to your wisdom. Do or undo as if I
myself were present." " What ?" cried Margaret, " will
your Majesty leave the Parliament ?" " Ay, Margaret ;
this grief overwhelms me. Gloucester is no traitor ; he
never wronged you, or these great lords, or any man, that
his life should be sought." He could make pretty, touching
speeches about his old friend and counsellor ; but what,
though King of England, he could not do was to find man
hood enough to stand by him. His lamentations proved
that he guessed only too well what was threatened ; yet in
the act of uttering them he was moving towards the door,
and betraying Duke Humphrey to his fate. The savage
and more intrepid hearts he left behind him in the Parlia
ment House had already decided that fate, and were not
long in discovering their agreement. Duke Humphrey
must die.

York was spared whatever small dishonour remained,
after consenting, inactively compassing the murder. While
Gloucester's enemies deliberated, news came of a rebellion
in Ireland, and to York was given the task of shipping an
army at Bristol and sailing to suppress it. He could have

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 237

desired nothing better. It removed him out of the way of
the popular rage which he foresaw would follow the crime.
And it gave him an army, which was precisely what he
lacked. The golden opportunity had arrived, and he grasped
it. He would nurse his army in Ireland and wait, while
Suffolk and the rest did his dirty work and incurred the
odium of it.

For Suffolk was short-sightedly eager to strike. He had
always made the mistake of undervaluing the opinion of
England at large. His strength lay in his favour with
Margaret and the influence this gave him in the narrow
inmost circle around the King. He forgot, or thought he
could neglect, that which no English king even has forgotten
or neglected without disaster. Margaret, as a French-woman,
might be forgiven for ignoring this ; Suffolk's ignorance
belonged to the tradition by which the great feudal lords
treated the commons and their feelings as of no account,
and by which they came to their ruin.

Two murderers hired by Suffolk strangled Duke Humphrey
as he lay sick on his bed at Bury. As the King took his
seat to try the accused, Suffolk, who had been sent to fetch
him, returned with a white face. " He is dead, my lord !
Dead in his bed!" The King swooned back in his chair.
They revived him, and he fell to petulant, weak ravings ;
poor cries of a heart to which grief is half a luxury, some
thing at least to be tasted. Margaret, who spoke up boldly
for her pet Suffolk, would have made short work of this
lamb-like rage; but as she ended a stronger wrath hammered
at the door. A crowd of the commons stood outside. They
had heard of the crime, and they had Salisbury and Warwick
to speak for them and exact vengeance. While Henry wept
impotently, these two nobles thrust themselves in, bearing
the dead body on its bed. " View it, my liege ! See, the
blood black in his face — his eyeballs staring, his nostrils
stretched with struggling — look on his hands, spread as they
must have grasped for life ! And on the sheets — see — his

238 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

hair is yet sticking ! By the Lord who died for men, this is
foul play ! This is Suffolk's work — the murderous coward !"

Suffolk and Margaret together hotly denied it. The
favourite had long ago warned his Queen that the Nevils
would have to be reckoned with ; that Salisbury, the father,
and Warwick, the son, were no simple peers ; but as he now
followed Warwick out to make good his denial by the sword,
he found on the further side of the door a more terrible
enemy than the Nevils. The throng there shouted for his
blood, and he could not face it. W7ith difficulty Salisbury
forced the commons back while he spoke their mind.
" Either Suffolk must be banished, or the crowd would
enter and hale him forth to torture and lingering death. It
was for the King's own sake they insisted, but the King must
choose." " A mob of tinkers !" sneered Suffolk ; but the time
for sneering was past. These despised commons had fixed
his doom for him, and clamoured impatiently while the King
seemed to hesitate. He pronounced it at length. Suffolk
was given three days in which to quit the kingdom for ever.

Margaret flung herself on her knees, but in vain. Henry
had found a will stronger than even hers. This stormy,
masterful woman could love, and she loved Suffolk as he
had loved her from the day he wooed her for the husband
she could neither understand nor respect. Before him she
could be weak, and she wept as she took leave of him. He
would stay, he swore, and face death rather than cry for
death in a foreign land, cry for her to close his eyes and
take his last breath on her lips. But no, she insisted, he
must go and take her heart .with him. Whithersoever he
might wander her messengers should find him out. And
he went, to an exile shorter than either of them guessed.

For the vengeance of Heaven was not tarrying. Already
the Cardinal lay on his death-bed writhing in torments of
conscience, clutching and gasping for breath, now blasphem
ing God and now cursing his fellow-men. Above all, he
kept crying aloud for the King ; but when Henry was

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 239

summoned and stood by his bedside the dying wretch failed
to recognise him. " Death ? Art thou Death ? I'll give
thee all England's treasure — enough to purchase another
such island — only let me live and feel no pain !" He passed
to wilder ravings. Warwick bent and spoke in his ear ;
" Beaufort, it is the King come to speak to thee." " Bring
me to my trial when you will ! He died in bed, did he
not ? Where should he die ? Can I make men live
whether they will or no ? . . . O ! cease torturing ; I will
confess. . . . Alive again ? Show me where he is — I'll
give a thousand pounds to have a look. He has no eyes ;
the dust has blinded his eyes ! Comb down his hair !
Look ! look ! it is standing upright ! . . . Give me drink . . .
bring the poison. Where is the poison I bought ? . . ."

Henry, kneeling and praying for the divine mercy on
this terrible end, cried to the Cardinal as he sank into
silence to make some sign — to lift a hand — in token that his
last thoughts were of heaven. The hand was not lifted.
The breathing ceased. " O God, forgive him ! We are
sinners and may not judge him. Close up his eyes and
draw the curtains."

Vengeance, passing onward from this bedside, overtook
Suffolk as he reached the coast in disguise — he dared not
travel openly, knowing the temper of the people. Near
Dover he hired a small craft and put out to sea, trusting to
be allowed a landing at Calais. He had sailed but a little
way when a fleet of armed ships bore down on him.
Forced to heave-to, he was summoned on board the Nicholas
of the Tower, and as he climbed up the side the captain
received him with the words, " Welcome, traitor !" Two
days later, as the ship hung off the English coast, a boat
came alongside, carrying a headsman, a block, and a rusty
sword. This was the end of Suffolk — "by water," as had
been prophesied.* His head was conveyed to Margaret,

* Some found a punning confirmation of the prophecy in the name
of his executioner, a certain Walter (or Water] Whitmore.

240 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

who mourned for it passionately. " I fear me, love,"
remonstrated Henry, " thou wouldst not have mourned so
for me had I been dead." " Nay, my love, I should not
mourn but die for thee."

The ships which seized Suffolk had put out from the
Cinque Ports ; and the men of Kent, who had furnished
them, heard whispers that a terrible revenge was preparing.
They were fiercely discontented, because they had prospered
on the spoil of the French wars and their prosperity was at
an end. Under John Cade, a soldier of some experience in
those wars, they now determined to be beforehand with the
royal anger, and rose in open revolt. There is more than a
suspicion that York had a hand in this rising, though by
reason" of his absence in Ireland his hand did not appear ;
but Cade took the name of Mortimer, and although very
few even of his ignorant followers believed him to be the
true Mortimer, the name was significant.

They were a rough, incoherent crew, having at the
bottom of their discontent a dull sense of injustice — a dull
feeling that they were misused, that England was disgraced
by misgovernment, and that somehow these two things
were connected, though they were quite incapable them
selves of reasoning this out. But their sense of it broke
out in a brute rage against the governing class. " It was
never merry world in England since gentlemen came up " :
" The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons." Yet as
happens with men of their class, flashes of mother-wit,
narrow but very shrewd and practical, lit up their absurd
arguments ; as when Cade — himself except in fighting, as
ignorant as any of them — proclaimed that his father was a
Mortimer. " That Mortimer," growled his right-hand man,
Dick the Butcher, " was an honest man and a good brick
layer." Cade promised a thorough reformation of the
realm. " There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves
sold for a penny ; the three hooped pots shall have ten
hoops ; and I will make it felony to drink small beer.

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 241

When I am king all shall eat and drink and chalk it up to
me, and all shall go dressed in one livery, that they may
agree like brothers and worship me, their lord." " The
first thing we do," suggested Dick, " let's kill all the
lawyers." " Nay," answered Cade, " that I mean to do.
Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an
innocent lamb should be made parchment ? that parchment,
being scribbled over, should undo a man ? Why, I set my
seal once to such a thing and was never my own master
since !" They brought him a prisoner they had taken.
"Who's this?" "The Clerk of Chatham; he can write
and read and cast accounts." " O monstrous !" " We
took him setting of boys' copies." " Here's a villain !" To
Sir Humphrey Stafford, who came with the King's forces to
suppress the rising, Cade boldly announced himself a
genuine Mortimer, and boldly proceeded to prove it.
" Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, married the daughter
of Lionel Duke of Clarence, hey ? Well, he had two
children, twins, and the elder was stolen away by a beggar-
woman and grew up to be a bricklayer. I am his son, and
you may deny that if you can." " Indeed, sir," put in a
rebel, " he made a chimney in my father's house, and the
bricks are alive to this day to testify it. Therefore you
cannot deny it." But Cade could fight better than he could
argue. Stafford, finding persuasion vain, gave battle. His
troops were defeated and himself and his brother slain, and
the rebels marched triumphantly upon London, which they
entered without resistance, Cade cutting the ropes of the
drawbridge with his sword as he passed. Henry and his
court had already escaped to Kenilworth, and for two days
the city lay at the rebels' mercy. Their chief rage, now
that Suffolk had fallen, was against Lord Say, as the royal
adviser most guilty of the surrender of Anjou and Maine.
Him they seized in his London house and brought to a rough
trial — an old tottering man shaken with the palsy. " I'll
see if his head will stand steadier on a pole or no," promised

16

242 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Cade. He charged Say — who denied that he was chargeable
— with the loss of Normandy, besides lesser misdemeanours.
" I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such
filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted
the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar-school ; and
whereas before our forefathers had no other books but the
score and tally, thou hast caused printing to be used ; and,
contrary to the King's crown and dignity, thou hast built a
paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast
men about thee that usually talk of a noun, and a verb, and
such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to
hear !"

Such — a little distorted, perhaps, in jest — were the charges
brought against Lord Say, and from treason of this sort he
could hardly be expected to clear himself. He was led forth
and executed ; his head set on a pole, and the head of his
son-in-law, Sir John Cromer, on another. The rebels enjoyed
the brutal sport of making the two heads kiss.

But the term of Cade's triumph was a brief one. On the
third day the Londoners, roused by the pillage of their shops
and houses, seized London Bridge and held it gallantly for
six hours. They were relieved by Buckingham and Clifford
of Cumberland, a great noble of the north, who came not
only with troops, but with promises from the King, on the
strength of which they addressed Cade's rabble and promised
pardon to all who dispersed. Cade saw his men wavering.
" Believe them not !" he shouted. " What, has my sword
broken through London gates that you should leave me at
the White Hart in Southwark ?" Clifford, however, knew
the men he was addressing. The King after all was the son
of their adored Harry the Fifth. " Will you by hating him
dishonour his father ? Is Cade a son of King Harry, to lead
you through the heart of France ? Or will you quarrel at
home till the French pluck up heart to cross over the seas
and lord it in London streets ? To France ! and recover
what you have lost!" "A Clifford! a Clifford!" shouted

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 243

the mob ; " We'll follow the King and Clifford." Cade
turned on them. " Was ever feather so lightly blown to
and fro as this multitude ? The name of Henry the Fifth
will lead them blindfold." While his late followers laid
their heads together to seize him, he broke through their
ranks and escaped, heading southwards. After days of
hiding in the woods of Kent, hunger drove him to break into
the garden of an honest esquire named Iden, who was
rambling in his quiet walks when, to his astonishment,
he came on this scarecrow intruder. Cade, utterly desperate
with famine, showed fight at once, and Iden cut him down
before recognising the rebel. Through this chance en
counter he found himself suddenly the richer by knighthood
and one thousand merks, the price set on the outlaw's head.

But the unhappy Henry had a short relief from his
troubles. " Never," he lamented, " did a subject so long to
be a king as I long to be a subject." He was no sooner rid
of Cade, than there arrived the worse news that the Duke of
York had landed with his Irish troops and was marching on
London. York's proclaimed purpose was to remove from
the King's side his inveterate enemy, Somerset, whom he
declared a traitor. Somerset by this time had become a
favourite with Margaret, but York's approach was too
formidable to be defied, and the King had to send word
by Buckingham that his enemy had been removed and
committed to the Tower. This left him no excuse but
to disband his Irish levies, and indeed for a while events
took away all temptation to use force. To be sure, in 1453
a son was born to the King, and this might well have seemed
fatal to the Yorkist chance of succession; but about the
same time Henry sank into a state of idiocy which made his
rule impossible, and York was entrusted with the business
of government under the title of Protector of the Realm.

Margaret, however, who had now her infant, Edward, to
scheme for, waited her time Henry recovered, and his
recovery deprived York of office. She seized this chance to

16 — 2

044 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

release Somerset from prison and restore him to his old
power. " For a thousand Yorks," she boldly announced,
" Somerset shall not hide his head." This was too much.
York denounced it as a breach of faith, denied the King's
fitness to govern, and collecting again his scattered troops,
openly took the field, supported by the Nevils. Clifford's
great power in the north enabled Margaret and Somerset to
get an army together to oppose him and set up the royal
standard at St. Albans.

Upon this camp York marched with Salisbury and
Warwick and a force of thirty thousand men. The battle
which followed, though ostensibly fought over the question
of dismissing Somerset or keeping him in power, was really
the first fought to decide whether the English crown should
go to the White or the Red Rose, and in the blood of
Clifford, whom York slew with his own hand, it sowed a
hatred which, inherited by Clifford's son, was to grow to
a terrible harvest. The death of Somerset on the field, as
the Yorkists swept victorious into St. Albans, removed the
pretended cause of the quarrel. But York had proved his
strength. Henry and Margaret were now in full flight for
London, and thither he must follow with speed. In
London he would learn how to act, would choose his next
step.

Ill

York had four sons, the fortunes of whom we are to
follow — Edward, Earl of March, soon to succeed his father
as head of the House of York, and in time to become King
of England and the first soldier of his age ; Edmund, Earl
of Rutland ; George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, the false
and fleeting ; and Richard, the youngest, a hunchbacked lad,
already giving promise of that sinister and malignant genius
which was to carry him to the throne of England, and set
him there in a white glare of hatred, the master-fiend of her
history. In his crooked body, with its colourless, twisted

KING HENRY THE SIXTH

245

face, eyes which repelled and fascinated, and snarling mouth
(he had been born, the tale went, with all his teeth) there
dwelt something of the wild animal, a monster hatched
out of the worst and corruptest passions of Feudal England,
to be its own scourge, and in the end its destroyer. Even as
youth he feared neither God nor man nor devil. He had
started for St. Albans with a blasphemy on his lips ; in the
battle he had thrice rescued the old Earl of Salisbury by his
reckless courage, had cut down Somerset with his own
hand,* and striking off his head, had carried it off and flung
it down before his father in triumph. York gazed on the
features of. his lifelong enemy. " Richard," said he, " has
done best of all my sons." " I hope to shake off King
Henry's head in the same fashion," said Richard.

For this, as for other things, Richard's time was to come,
For the moment he stood in the shadow of another great figure
on the side of the White Rose — Richard, Earl of Warwick,
the strongest of the strong Nevils, the " King-maker," the
" Last of the Barons." Feudalism was doomed, but in
Warwick it died, if not nobly, at any rate magnificently.
He was its fine flower and its grandest type. Heir to the
earldom of Salisbury, he had doubled his wealth and added
the earldom of Warwick by his marriage with the heiress of
the Beauchamps. When he rode to Parliament six hundred
retainers, wearing his badge of the bear and ragged staff,
followed at his heels. Thousands feasted daily in his court-
1 yard. He could raise whole armies from his own earldoms.
In generalship and (some said) in personal courage he might
fall short of York's two sons, Edward and Richard, but he
was an active warrior none the less, and for intrigue and

)litic dealing the first head in the kingdom. In the end
the two lads outplayed him, but for the present he supported
their cause, and it was by his support that in time they
found themselves strong enough to challenge him.

* Under the signboard of the Castle Inn in St. Albans. Those who
will may see in this a confirmation of the prophecy on p. 233.

246 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

This array of power and ability on the Yorkist side would
have left Lancaster weak indeed had it not been for
Margaret. Fierce and implacable as her husband was weak,
she took the place of a man at the head of the Red Rose
faction. Clifford could fight, but it was Margaret who
commanded ; and hereafter whenever success falls to the
arms of Lancaster, it is always Margaret who is in the field,
fighting like a tigress for the rights of her boy, again and
again putting fresh life into her husband, and with un
defeated tenacity lifting a beaten cause and renewing the
struggle.

For a brief while after the battle of St. Albans a return of
the King's malady gave the two parties a respite. York
became Protector again, and Margaret pretended, at least,
to be reconciled. But once more Henry's recovery raised
the question " Who, after all, is to rule England ?" and in
1460 York took the bold course and openly, in the presence
of Parliament, asserted that the crown belonged to him.
" My father was King," protested Henry, " and my grand
father was King by conquest." "Not so," answered York,
" by rebellion." There, of course, lay the weakness of the
Lancastrian title. " But a king may adopt an heir, and
Richard in the presence of many nobles resigned the crown
to my grandfather." "Yes, under force. Now, as well as
right, we have force on our side." Warwick stamped his
foot, and the Parliament house was filled in a minute with
soldiers. " Let me reign for my lifetime," pleaded Henry,
too weak either to be a true king or to resign with a good
grace. On this ground a compact was patched up. Henry
should be allowed to reign during his life, and the crown
should then pass to York and his heirs.

Young Clifford and the other barons of the north were
furious at Henry's faint-hearted bargain, and marched out
of the Parliament rather than consent to it. But their fury
was nothing to Margaret's when the word came to her that
her darling son had been disinherited. " Wretched man,"

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 247

she broke out, " would I had never seen thee ! '.Enforced '?

What! art thou a King and wilt consent to be forced

consent to reign on sufferance with York for Protector,
Warwick for Chancellor and lord of Calais, and his uncle
Falconberg in command of the Channel ? Had I been
there — I, a silly woman — Warwick's soldiers should have
tossed me on their pikes before I let them disinherit my boy.
Until that compact be repealed thou art no husband of mine.
The northern lords have forsworn thy colours ; they shall
follow mine. Come, my son, let us leave this talker !"

Poor Henry sat down to write letters entreating Clifford
and the rest not to forsake him. But Margaret called
on their loyalty in a more heroic fashion, and seeing her take
the field Clifford raised the royal standard for her in the
northern shires, while the new Duke of Somerset levied an
army in the west. York, leaving Warwick in London to
watch over the King, hastily gathered a force and marched
northward until he encountered Clifford's army at Wakefield
in Yorkshire. There he found himself outnumbered by four
to one, and disaster fell on the White Rose. His second
son, Edmund, Earl of Rutland, wandering the battlefield in
charge of a tutor, fell into Clifford's hands. While the
soldiers hurried away his protector, the poor boy begged for
life. But Clifford had taken an oath of vengeance. " Thy
father slew my father," was the answer, "so will I kill thee."
And he drove his dagger into the young breast.

York's hour, too, was at hand. His two sons, Edward
and Richard, fighting beside him, had made a lane for him
through his foes, shouting, " Courage, father ! fight it out !"
But as their overmatched troops broke and fled, father and
sons were swept apart, and at length the Duke found him
self, faint and alone, hedged around by his deadly enemies.
He could hope for no quarter. But Margaret held back
Clifford's sword while she made her prisoner taste the full
bitterness of death. She enthroned him on a molehill — this
man who had reached at mountains. " Where are your

248 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

sons now, to back you ? — wanton Edward and lusty
George, and your boy Dicky, that crookback prodigy ?
Where is your darling, your Rutland ? Look, York," — she
held out a crimsoned napkin, — " I dipped this in your boy's
blood. If you have tears for him, take this and wipe your
eyes." They called on him to weep for their sport. They
brought a paper crown and set it on him. " Marry, now he
looks like a king !" Clifford, in his father's memory, claimed
the privilege of dealing the death-stroke. The doomed
man's indignant protest moved even his enemy Northumber
land to pity. " Woman, worse than tiger, I take thy cloth
and wash my sweet boy's blood from it with my tears. So,
keep it. Go boast of it, and have in thine own hour of need
such comfort as thou art offering me!" Margaret had no
pity. She taunted Northumberland's compassionate weak
ness. With her own dagger she followed up Clifford's
stroke. " Off with his head ! Set it on York gates, and let
York overlook his city of York !"

It was in Herefordshire, near Mortimer's Cross, that news
of York's fate reached his sons. Young Edward was
hurrying to avenge the reverse at Wakefield with the army
collected by Somerset in the west ; and the soldiers told of
an omen, an apparition at dayrise of three suns which, after
shining separate for a while in the clear sky, joined and
melted into one. The three heirs of York read it as promis
ing them a triple yet united glory, and Edward from that
time took three suns for the cognizance of his arms. It was
Richard who recovered first from the blow of the heavy
tidings. " Tears are for babes. I choose blows and revenge.
As I bear my father's name, I'll avenge him."

In Herefordshire they were met by Warwick, who on
learning the issue of the fight at Wakefield, guessing that
Margaret's next move would be on London to rescue the
King from his keeping, had promptly collected a force of
Kentishmen and marched out to oppose her. For the
second time St. Albans had seen a conflict between the Red

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 249

and White Roses, but after a fierce day's fighting the
Yorkist forces had broken under cover of the night, and
Henry fallen again into the hands of his own party.

Such was the tale brought by Warwick, who had collected
his broken regiments and marched post-haste to join with
young Edward's fresh forces. The tidings might have
been fatal .had not Margaret paused in her march upon
London to indulge her thirst for vengeance in a savage
butchery of prisoners, and allowed her northerners to scatter
for pillage. As it was, Edward had just time to overthrow
a body of Lancastrians barring his way at Mortimer's Cross,
and hurrying forward to dash into London ahead of her.
It was a stroke which proved him a born general. The
citizens received him with shouts of " Long live King
Edward !" as — a gallant handsome youth of nineteen — he
rode along their streets. Margaret and her army fell back
sullenly upon their northern headquarters at York, where
Henry winced at the sight of his late enemy's head impaled
over the gate. Edward, now secure of the support of the
capital, lost no time in hurrying with Warwick to compel
them to a decisive battle.

A parley at York between the leaders ended as usual in
open threats and defiance, and the two armies met on
Towton Field, near Tadcaster, to contest the bloodiest and
most obstinate battle fought in England since Hastings.
Together the armies numbered almost a hundred and twenty
thousand men, and from daybreak, when the Yorkists
advanced to the charge through blinding snow, for six hours
the tide of success swayed to and fro undecisively. At one
moment Warwick, as his men gave ground and their com
manders began to consult gloomily, stabbed his horse before
their eyes, and, kneeling, swore on the cross of his sword-
hilt to revenge his brother (borne down and thrust through
by Clifford) or to die on the field.

As the daylight grew, Henry, the unwilling cause of all
this carnage, wandered forth on the outskirts of the fight,

250 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Margaret and Clifford had chidden him back out of danger,
swearing that they prospered best when relieved of his
presence. Seating himself on a hummock — just such a
molehill as that on which York had been mockingly en
throned — in kinship scarcely less impotent and forlorn, he
watched the ebb and flow of the battle. " Let the victory
go to whom God wills it ! Would that, by God's good will,
I were dead !" Heartily he envied a shepherd's lot in just
such a pastoral land as this, which, but for him, had been
bloodless and smiling. To sit upon just such a hill, in the
hawthorn shade, and carve out rustic dials while his sheep
browsed — that to this gentlest of monarchs seemed true
happiness. And while he sat he saw and understood what
this horrible civil war meant for pastoral England, a war in
which, forced by no will of their own to take sides, sons
slew their fathers and fathers their sons. While at a little
distance slayers such as these lamented over their slain,
Henry wept for the unnatural error of it all.

At length Norfolk arriving with reinforcements turned the
scale in favour of the White Rose. The Lancastrians were
beaten back to the river which lay in their rear, and there
the retreat became a rout. No quarter was given. All that
night and through the next day the killing went forward.
Clifford, desperately wounded, died before his enemies could
overtake him, but the sons of York seized the body and
exulted over the man who had slain their father and brother,
and set his head to decorate the gates of York in its turn.
Twenty thousand Lancastrians lay dead on the field, and
almost as many Yorkists ; but the victory made Edward
king for the time beyond dispute. Henry and Margaret
escaped over the Scottish border, Somerset into exile.
Northumberland was dead. Devonshire and Wiltshire
followed him as soon as the murderous reprisals began.
Edward created his brother George Duke of Clarence, and
Richard Duke of Gloucester. Richard had wished the
dukedom of Clarence for himself. " That of Gloucester is

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 251

too ominous," said he, between earnest and a jesting glance
at the fate of Duke Humphrey. He took it, however, and
waited his time for something better.

Edward was now Edward IV., crowned King of England,
and could reign for a time in something like security. Yet
Margaret kept up the struggle.' Leaving Henry in Scotland,
which had been their refuge after the disaster of Towton,
she crossed back over the border and stirred up the north
to a new rising, only to be crushed by Warwick at Hedgeley
Moor and again at Hexham. Still indomitable, she set sail
for France to beg help from the young king Lewis XI. ;
and there met face to face again with her enemy Warwick,
who had come upon a rival mission.

Warwick by this time had reached the height of his
power. He was Lord Admiral of England, and maintained
in the Channel ports a fleet devoted to his service. He
was Captain of Calais and Warden of the Western Marches.
A brother, Lord Montague, ruled the northern border ; a
younger brother was Archbishop of York and Lord Chan
cellor ; while his uncles Lords Falconberg, Abergavenny,
and Latimer had all drawn rich spoils from the Yorkist
triumph.

But if for three years the King-maker seemed all-powerful,
the King (as his march on London had proved) was no
Henry, but a young man of brain and will, and a leader
of men. In private life abominably dissolute, and to all
appearance an idler, a lover of costly wines and meats, a
follower of vicious pleasures which in the end bloated his
body and killed him before his time, amid these pursuits
he could scheme as cunningly as Warwick, and when war
summoned him it found him always the first general of
his age.

Sooner or later between these two strong men the struggle
was bound to come. It began silently, and Edward struck
his first blow when Warwick was absent in France nego
tiating for him a marriage with the Lady Bona, sister of

252 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the French Queen. Lewis found himself between two
petitioners; on the one side Margaret, passionately plead
ing for aid to restore her boy to the throne ; on the other
Warwick, temptingly offering a rich alliance with the actual
King of England. Even poor Henry in his Scottish hiding
could forecast how the contest would go, Margaret had
come to beg, Warwick to give. Lewis might pity the
weaker side, but he would surely decide for the stronger.

So indeed he did, but in the act of deciding he was in
terrupted by news from England. Edward had flouted
Warwick and made his mission idle by privately marrying
Dame Elizabeth Grey, the widow of a slain Lancastrian
and daughter of a knight named Woodville. The King's
brothers resented the match ; but while Clarence openly in
veighed against it, Richard kept a stiller tongue in his head.
An heir to Edward, should one be born, would be one more
life between him and the crown on which he had set his
heart ; but what was done could not be undone. He would
have the crown, with time and patience.

To the Lady Bona, and through her to the French King,
this marriage was a deliberate insult. Nor did it improve
the temper of the befooled Warwick that Edward at once
began to shower favours on the Woodvilles, the greedy and
vulgar-minded family of his new wife, and raise them to
power in opposition to the proud Nevils. The King-maker
and Queen Margaret, whom he had ruined, now discovered
that they had a common cause, and King Lewis in his
anger was ready to back them. They swore alliance, and
to cement it Warwick betrothed his eldest daughter, the
Lady Anne Nevil, to Margaret's boy, the young Prince of
Wales.

Warwick thus stood pledged to unmake the king he had
made, and restore the House of Lancaster to the throne, in
the person either of the young prince or of the deposed Henry
who — tossed to and fro like a shuttlecock in the game — had
once more passed abjectly into his enemies' hands. Stealing

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 253

across the Scottish border to indulge in the sorrowful luxury
of gazing on the realm he had lost, he blundered upon a
couple of deer-keepers, who promptly secured and marched
him to London, where, on horseback, with his feet tied to
the stirrups, he was paraded thrice round the pillory and
then cast into the Tower.

Warwick could feel no real affection for anyone of the
House of Lancaster. He had a second daughter, Isabel ;
and, while playing with the hopes and demands of the
Lancastrians, he gave her in marriage to the discontented
Clarence, whom he secretly proposed to set on the throne
in Edward's place. Clarence had no scruple now in be
traying his brother. He left the court and raised a revolt
in the Midlands. Edward, marching hurriedly to cope with
it, was surprised by Warwick and Clarence one night in his
own camp, made prisoner, and confided to the keeping of
Nevil, Archbishop of York. From this captivity he was
cunningly stolen by his brother Richard, and Warwick's
schemes for crowning Clarence were defeated by the
Lancastrians, who demanded Henry's restoration and would
do nothing under that price. In the following spring a new
revolt broke out in Lincolnshire, but this found Edward
better prepared. Marching northwards, he crushed the
rebels and turned swiftly on their abettors. Clarence and
Warwick could gather no force to meet them, and were
forced to escape over-sea.

Desperate now of setting up Clarence, Warwick calmly
abandoned him and fell back on the plan — which he had
taken so long to stomach — of staking all on Margaret's
side. To her he engaged his word to liberate Henry, and
crossing once more to England, at a moment when a fresh
revolt had drawn Edward off to the north, he pressed on
his heels with an army which gathered so ominously that
Edward in turn was glad enough to escape out of the
kingdom and take shelter in Flanders.

He retreated, however, but to return and strike effec-

254 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

tively. Warwick had indeed liberated Henry, and led him
from his cell to the throne, but the unhappy King enjoyed
a very brief freedom. He asked no more than to place the
substance of power in the joint hands of Warwick and
Clarence. The shadow was enough for him, might he
share it with Margaret and his son, whom he summoned
from France, where King Lewis was providing fresh troops
to uphold the advantage which Warwick had gained for
them.

But before they could obey, Edward — whom the Duke
of Burgundy had supplied with an army — landed at Ravens-
purgh, and came marching down the length of England,
making proclamation that he had surrendered his claim to
the crown, and sought only to be restored to his dukedom.
But the name of Ravenspurgh and the terms of his pro
clamation sounded ominously to those who recalled where
and how, and under what pretext, Bolingbroke had landed
and wrested the sceptre from King Richard II. By the
time he reached Nottingham sixty thousand men marched
under the White Rose. Warwick, rallying his supporters
under the Red Rose banner at Coventry, waited long but
waited in vain for Clarence to join him. Oxford, Montague,
Somerset, one after another, came trooping in with their
drums and colours ; still Clarence tarried. He had deserted
back to his brother as lightly as he had deserted from him.
Edward knew his levity ; and, too cold perhaps to feel any
deep resentment, certainly too politic to show it at this
moment, gave him an affectionate greeting. Richard
echoed it with a sneer — "Welcome, Clarence; this is
indeed brother-like !"

The brothers, once more united, marched rapidly on
London, the gates of which were opened to them ; and for
the last time Henry passed back from the throne to the
Tower. Warwick followed, and the deciding battle was
fought at Barnet, on the north side of London, April i4th,
1471 (Easter Sunday). Three hours of furious and con-

KING HENRY THE SIXTH 255

fused slaughter, in which the Lancastrians, amid flying
rumours of treachery and desertion, scarcely knew their
friends from their foes, left Warwick, Montague, and all
their ablest leaders dead on the field. The cause of the
Red Rose was lost.

Somerset and Oxford escaped and fled westward to join
Margaret, who on that very day had landed with her son at
Plymouth. Three weeks later, as they marched to join the
troops which the Earl of Pembroke was raising in Wales,
their army was overtaken at Tewkesbury by Edward, who
by a brilliant piece of strategy had hurried from Windsor
to intercept them. Footsore and weary, they reached
Tewkesbury on May 3rd, and took ground in a strong posi
tion close by the Abbey there. From this, on the follow
ing day, they were enticed by Richard, cut to pieces and
slaughtered like sheep. Hundreds ran screaming into the
Abbey for sanctuary, were seized, dragged forth, and
executed in batches at the town cross ; hundreds were
chased down into the River Avon and drowned. Margaret
and her son were taken and brought before Edward, who,
angered by the gallant boy's defiance, smote him across the
mouth with his iron glove. The daggers of the three
brothers silenced him more effectually. Edward struck
first. . " What, sprawling ?" sneered Richard. " Take that,
to end your agony." " And that," added Clarence, " for
twitting me with perjury." " Kill me too!" pleaded Mar
garet, broken at last, as his blood ran from their daggers.
" Marry, that will I." Richard was ready, but Edward held
his hand. When she recovered from her swoon and would
have besought him again, Richard had galloped from the
field. " The Tower ! The Tower !" had been his last
whisper in Clarence's ear. " He's sudden, when a thing
comes into his head," was Edward's cynical comment when
Clarence told him.

Henry sat reading in his cell in the Tower, when Richard
was announced and entered with a sneering smile. The sad

256 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

King knew his errand at once. His eyes were opened ; he
saw that death had entered with Richard and stood behind
his crooked shoulder; and he saw in that crooked figure
incarnate the final curse begotten in the long struggle and
bred for the blight of all its shadow was to fall upon. His
lips were opened too, and he prophesied. Richard leaped
on him with his dagger. " For this I was ordained — among
other things !" he snarled, and drove home the blow.
" Ay, and for much more slaughter to come," gasped Henry :
" God forgive my sins, and thee !" He was dead ; but
Richard, like a wild beast mad with the taste of blood,
struck again and again. " Down — down to hell, and say I
sent thee !" he growled over the body.

Richard II. was avenged. The curse against which
Henry V. prayed before Agincourt had overtaken the House
of Lancaster at length, and was fulfilled. But the curse
on the House of York was yet to fall. At Westminster
Edward could feel himself secure ; could turn all his
thoughts to pleasure and courtly shows. Margaret was
banished ; his strong foes, from Warwick downward, were
dead one and all. A son had been born to inherit the
crown. He bade his two brothers kiss their nephew.
Clarence and Richard bent over the child in turn. We
shall see that child again with Richard's shadow bent above
him and over-arching.

KING RICHARD THE THIRD

AT length England was at peace. The long struggle of the
Roses had exhausted her and drained her of blood. When
the great peers met in Parliament, the long empty benches
told them at what cost to their order they had fought.
They, the survivors, sat as it were with ghosts, representing
the shadow only of those civil liberties their ancestors had
won, had abused, and had lost again. In his palace King
Edward could give himself up to indolence and pleasure;
and he did so in the sight of all men, but he did also many
things which they failed to mark. Few understood this
curious cynical King who so carelessly cast his handsome
body away to perdition, yet all the while was patiently and
cunningly strengthening the monarchy, and making it all
but absolutely powerful. In war he had never lost a battle;,
when it came to treachery, he had outplayed his master, the
great Warwick ; at one time and another almost one-fifth
of the whole land in the kingdom, stripped from the nobles,
had fallen into his hands ; and now while he appeared to
take his ease, content only to be gay and popular, his eyes
under their drooped lids never relaxed their vigilance.
Stealthily, surely, his toils closed around new sources of
wealth ; his ships multiplied on the seas ; his spies were
everywhere ; his will made itself silently felt in every court
of law.

So his masterly brain went on working ; but for himself
he was weary of soul. He had reached his own ambition
early. The most selfish of men, when it occurred to him to
desire a thing, he heeded no opposition. It had been his

257 17

258

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

fancy to marry Dame Elizabeth Grey, and he did so though
it insulted the King of France and mortally offended
Warwick. Her kinsfolk, the Woodvilles, were a base and
greedy crew. Edward ennobled and enriched them one
after another, enjoying the disgust of Clarence and Warwick
and the great families, and afterwards watched with contempt,
half-amused, half-tired, the vulgarity of these newcomers as
they intrigued about him. For his children, indeed, he was
anxious and even over-anxious; he had two sons and five
daughters, and from their cradles he schemed to make
marriages for them. Oddly enough, while his other projects
succeeded, these always failed. For the rest he had come
to the end of his desires ; nothing remained but to fall bad
on eating and drinking and coarse bodily pleasure, and wit!
these he wore himself out.

While he was doing it, still, as always, his brother Richarc
stood by his side watching, waiting. He had not reache
the end of his ambitions.

Our tale has brought us to a time when the darkness
the Middle Ages was breaking up. Already Caxton had set
up his printing-press at Westminster, and soon, as the
Turks took Constantinople and its Greek scholars fled fc
refuge to Italy, a flood of old Greek learning was to cor
pouring over the west of Europe. In that queer twilight
while the old faith was dissolving and before a new one
fairly dawned, there were born — it is one of the wonde
of history — numbers of men with utterly pagan souls. The}
disbelieved in God and* scoffed at Him; they were wicked,
knew themselves to be wicked, rejoiced in it, and took a
pride in their wickedness as if it had been a sort of fine art.
Nowadays a wicked man usually tries to persuade himself
that he is not so bad after all, that the world has used him
ill, that he is " more sinned against than sinning " ; but these
men were wicked from choice and strove to be devilish. In
the history of Italy about this time you may find many
such. In England for several reasons this deliberate

KING EDWARD IV. AND HIS HEIR.

From a print in the Boydell collection after J. Northcote, R.A.

260 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

villainy has never been common ; but if there ever lived
in England a deliberate villain, by all accounts Richard
was he.*

Let this be said for him — though it does not excuse him :
it was no fault of his that Nature had made him so
monstrous to the eye that the very dogs in the street barked
at him. He felt his deformity keenly. " Very well," he
resolved, " men shrink from me in loathing. They shall
find me what they expect." He had still to learn that his
terrible face could fascinate as well as repel.

He learned it in this way. The corpse of King Henry VI.,
after lying in state in St. Paul's, was being conveyed to the
river-side, thence to be carried by boat to Chertsey in
Surrey for burial. Richard strolled out into the street to
feast his eyes on the small procession — the body of his
victim, the bier, the few gentlemen of birth walking with
halberds beside it, and one only mourner — the Lady Anne,
daughter of the King-maker, and widow of the young
Prince of Wales, over whose death agony the Yorkist
brothers had gloated at Tewkesbury.

While she walked lamenting, cursing the man \vho had
murdered father as well as son, the procession halted, and
Richard himself stood before her.

" Set down the corpse," he commanded ; and as the

* I say " by all accounts " ; but it is possible or even likely that if the
truth about Richard had ever been allowed to come down to us, we
should hold quite another opinion of him. When the first Tudor king
slew him and took his crown, it became the business of the Tudors to
blacken his memory and represent him as a fiend in human shape;
and the Tudor historians did this handsomely. It is believed that
Henry VII. 's chronicler, Polydore Vergil, destroyed documents whole
sale, with his master's connivance, to remove all that might tell in
Richard's favour. This was overshooting the mark. It left the picture
too black to be credited when in course of time Tudor prejudice dis
appeared. But Shakespeare wrote under a Tudor queen and for a
prejudiced audience; and, lacking the means to correct it, we must
take what he gives us— with more than a grain of salt.

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 261

halberdiers hesitated, "By St. Paul, I'll make a corpse of
any man of you who disobeys !"

" My lord," entreated one of the gentlemen, " stand back,
and let the coffin pass."

" Stand thyself, thou unmannerly dog ! Lower thy
halberd, or, by St. Paul, I'll strike thee down and trample
on thee."

The Lady Anne came forward. " What, gentlemen ! Are
you trembling ? Are you all afraid ? I cannot blame you,
alas ! — that your mortal eyes cannot endure such a devil."
She turned on Richard. " Hence ! minister of hell ! Thou
hadst power over his mortal body, but his soul thou canst not
have."

" Be not so shrewish, sweet saint ;" Richard leered on her.
In truth a wild scheme had come into his head, and he stood
with his eyes on her and a smile twisting his face, while she
cursed and accused him, pointing to Henry's wounds.

" Fair, but most uncharitable lady," he answered at
length, "give me leave to excuse myself."

" Excuse ! Foul beyond power of thinking, what excuse
canst thou give but to hang thyself ? thou slaughterer !"

" Ay ; but suppose I slew them not ? It was not I who
killed your husband, but Edward." .

" Liar ! Margaret saw thy dagger hot in his blood ; nay,
and it was turned against her own breast when thy brothers
beat it aside."

Richard shrugged his shoulders. " She provoked me
with her tongue."

" Thine own bloody mind provoked thee ! Didst thou
not kill Henry, here?"

" I grant it."

" You grant it ? Then God grant me thy soul's damna
tion for that wicked deed ! Oh, he was gentle, so mild, so
virtuous !"

" And the fitter to go to heaven. Heaven will suit him
better than earth," Richard sneered.

262 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" Thou art unfit for any place but hell."

" I grant it again. But let us be reasonable, gentle
Lady Anne ! Is the executioner of these untimely deaths
more blameworthy than the cause of them."

" Thou wast the cause of them."

" Not so." He fixed his eyes more intently upon hers.
" Your beauty was the cause," he said slowly ; then with a
sudden passionate haste, " Your beauty, which has haunted
my sleep, bidding me murder all the world if only to live
for an hour on your sweet breast."

Anne shrank back, putting np her hands to cover her eyes ;
her fingers pressed the flesh until they left white marks.
" If I thought that," she gasped, " these nails should tear
that beauty away."

" Nay," said Richard coaxingly, "not while I stood by.
I could not see the light of my life so blemished."

But Anne recovered herself, loathing herself that she could
not free her eyes from his gaze. Breaking into curses
again, she spat at him. " Would it were poison !" she
panted. " Oh, if these eyes could but strike thee dead !"

" I would they might," Richard went on blandly, his own
playing with them as a cat with a mouse ; " then I should
die at once : now they are killing me with a living death.
They have drawn salt tears, lady, from mine — mine, which
had no tears even when Rutland, my tender brother, moaned
under Clifford's sword ; none even when thy father, warlike
Warwick, told us like a child the sad story of my father's
death, and twenty times broke down in sobs while his
hearers wept with him." Again Anne drew herself up and
forced her mouth to smile scornfully ; but he held her eyes.
" Teach thy lips no such scorn, lady ; they were made for
kissing, not for, contempt. If thou be too full of revenge to
forgive me, see "—he drew his sword, and kneeling tendered
it to her by the blade — " plunge this in this true breast, and
let forth the soul that adores thee."

She took the sword by its handle : still kneeling, still with

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 263

his eyes on hers, he pulled open his shirt. She pushed
forward the point, then wavered.

" Nay, pause not. I did kill King Henry — but it was thy
beauty provoked me ; I did stab young Edward — but it was
thy heavenly face set me on."

The sword dropped from her hands with a clang. Still
Richard knelt.

" Nay, take it up again, or take me."

" Rise," stammered the poor woman. " I wish thy death,
but I cannot kill thee."

" Then bid me kill myself. I will do it."

" I have done so."

" Tush, that was in thy rage. Come, say it again ; and
the hand which for thy sake killed thy love shall for love of
thee kill a far truer love, and thou shalt be accessory to both
murders."

She peered at him shuddering. " I wish I could read thy
heart."

" My tongue utters it."

" Well, well," she sighed hopelessly ; " put up thy sword."

" Tell me then that my peace is made."

" You shall know hereafter." For the moment she was
vanquished, yet still she fought for time. But he stepped to
her, caught her hand, and slipped his ring on her finger. " So,"
he persisted, " thy breast encloses my poor heart. Wear both,
for they both are thine. For the moment I beg but one
thing more : leave to me these sad rites, go quickly to my
palace in Bishopsgate ; and when I have seen King Henry
interred at Chertsey monastery, I will repair back thither
with all the swiftness of my regard. Grant this : I have
reasons for asking it."

And Anne obeyed. Under his will she was powerless : it
thrilled her, yet to be mastered in this fashion was not all
unhappiness.

"Bid me farewell," Richard commanded,

She, poor soul, could even play at archness, or perhaps

264 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

caught at it to steady herself. " 'Tis more than you
deserve," said she ; " but since you must teach me to flatter
you — imagine that I have done so already."

Richard watched her along the street, then turned abruptly
to the bearers. " Sirs, take up the corpse," he commanded.

" Shall we bear it on to Chertsey, my lord ?" asked one.

" No ; to Whitefriars. Wait for me there at the river
side."

The mourners lifted the bier and passed on, leaving
Richard alone. It had been the strangest wrooing.
"Was ever woman wooed or won in this humour?" he
mused. " I'll have her !" he paused, and added, " But I
will not keep her long."

Why had he wooed her ? That answer at any rate is
simple. She was one of the richest women in England.
She and her sister, his brother Clarence's wife, were
heiresses of all the vast possessions of their father, the
King-maker. Clarence would be a heavy loser by this, and
his wrath something worth witnessing. Well, Clarence
would have to be dealt with.

But — it was wonderful ! It amazed Richard himself.
*' What ! I who killed both her husband and her father, to
take her so in the moment of her bitterest hate, with curses
in her mouth, with tears in her eyes, over the very body of
Henry ; with God and her conscience and all these witnesses
against me, and I with nothing to back my suit but the
sheer devil in me, and a few dissembling glances ; and to
win nevertheless against every odds! Ha!" He took a
long breath. He had learnt something — a power of mastery
in him beyond his dreams. He had proved it in these few
minutes ; and yet, so wonderful was it, he glanced down his
withered body as though prepared for a surprise there.
" Has she already forgotten her Edward, young, gallant,
and royal, whom I stabbed not three months ago? And
can she condescend to be taken by me — poor, limping,
misshapen me ? Upon my life, I must be mistaken in my

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 265

person. She must find me a marvellous good - looking
fellow. I wish / could ; but it seems I must buy a looking-
glass."

But if he meant to marry Anne there would be Clarence
to reckon with. This would not be hard. In his heart
Richard despised Clarence wholly. Richard, with all his
faults, had ever stood loyally by Edward's fortunes ; whereas
Clarence had betrayed him once in a baffled attempt to
grasp the crown for himself and his children, and was even
now scheming again.

This was the card which Clarence held or supposed him
self to hold. — When Edward had first declared his intention
of marrying Dame Elizabeth Grey, his mother, who (like the
rest of his kin) hated the match, tried to prevail on a certain
Lady Elizabeth Lucy to come forward and swear that she
had been privately married by the king. When it came to
the point, however, the lady had to admit that the contract
was not a regular one. Of course if it could be proved
valid, Edward's second marriage would be void and his
children illegitimate, and the crown on his death must go by
law to his next brother Clarence and to Clarence's heirs.
That there was more in it than Edward owned was made
the likelier by his touchiness on the subject ; which went so
far that once having heard that a London grocer who plied
his business under the sign of " The Crown " had jestingly
spoken of his son as " heir to the Crown," he had the
unhappy tradesman hanged for his joke.

So when Clarence became troublesome, Richard had to
his hand an easy means of removing him. He had simply
to go to the King and report that his brother was prying
into this business and raking up the old scandal. Edward,
who as he felt his end near grew more angrily suspicious
than ever of any hint against his children's legitimacy, was
worked into a greater rage by the production of a prophecy
which said that " G " should disinherit the King's heirs.
Now Clarence's name was George, and George begins with

266 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

a G. (So, by the way, does Gloucester, but Richard did
not point this out.) As for the Queen and her kinsfolk,
they were furious, as was only natural.

" So much the better," thought Richard ; " Master
Clarence, when he suffers, will put it down to them and
never suspect me."

Everything fell out as he planned. Clarence was arrested
and marched off to the Tower.

Richard lay in wait for him on his way thither and
expressed a painful surprise. " This is the Queen's — that
woman Grey's — work, with her pestilent kin," he declared ;
and when told by Sir Robert Brakenbury, Lieutenant of
the Tower, that speech with the prisoner could not be
allowed, " We are the Queen's abjects," sneered he, slurring
over the two words so that Brakenbury might hear it as
" the Queen's subjects " if he chose : " we must obey " ; and
he sent Clarence away with a promise that he would leave
no stone unturned to obtain a release. Having watched
him down the street he hurried to the palace where Edward,
sick and alarmed, desired his presence, hoping to reconcile
him with the Queen and her party so that when the end
came they should all stand together and support the young
heir to the throne.

Could the King have looked into the antechamber where
presently they assembled he might have known how vain
was that hope. The Queen was there, restless with appre
hension ; her brother, Earl Rivers ; her two sons by her
first marriage — Thomas, newly created Marquis of Dorset,
and Richard, knighted as Sir Richard Grey. With them
were Hastings, the Lord Chamberlain, but newly released
from an imprisonment he owed to the Queen's hatred;
Buckingham, Richard's most thorough-going and least
scrupulous supporter, himself of the blood-royal by descent
from Edward III.'s youngest son Thomas of Woodstock;
and Stanley, Earl of Derby, a politic peer with an oppor
tunity ahead and waiting for him. For out of the wreckage

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 267

of the House of Lancaster there survived only one child,
for the time safe in Brittany, who might in time be able to
challenge the right of the House of York to the throne.
This was the young Henry, Earl of Richmond, son of
Edmund Tudor and Margaret Beaufort, and through her
descended from John of Gaunt.* And on Edmund Tudor's
death Stanley had married the widowT. But as yet he
served the House of York, not guessing the fortune in store
for his stepson.

Such was the incongruous company found by Richard in
the anteroom. His line for the moment lay in a fine show
of grievance against the Queen and her kinsfolk (as if they,
and not he, had compassed Clarence's ruin), and before such
hearers as Buckingham and Hastings he could afford to let
them feel the rough side of his tongue. " A pretty state of
things," he grumbled, " this tittle-tattling to the King ! Who
are they who spread such complaints ? Cannot a plain man
go his own way and think no harm of anybody, but his
honest meaning must be abused by a lot of sly, insinuating
upstarts."

" To whom in the room is Your Grace speaking ?" Rivers
incautiously asked.

" To thee," snapped Richard. " And to thee — and to
thee," turning from one to another of the Queen's party ;
and, fairly started, he rated them high and low for a set of
low-born vulgar schemers until, after a worse taunt than the
rest, the Queen protested she would stand it no longer ; she
would acquaint the King with these gross insults ; she had
rather be a country serving-maid than a queen on such terms.

But while they scolded there had stolen into the room a
dark figure which, unperceived by them, hung back against
the dim arras. It might have been taken for a ghost. In a
sense it was indeed a ghost — the spectre of a terrible past
crept back from exile — Margaret, once Queen of England.
And yet it was no longer Margaret; no longer the fierce

* See Genealogical Table (Appendix) .

268 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

woman who had traversed England with troops and banners
battling desperately for her child ; nor even a childless
widowed woman ; but a body from which love, hope,
ambition had departed, leaving only hate, to burn in the
wasted frame and keep it alive. She in whose arms, years
ago, the ambitious Suffolk had prayed to die, had now no
interest tying her to earth but to stand by and gloat over
Heaven's vengeance. Upon all in the room lay the shadow
of that vengeance ; from each in turn the penalty would be
exacted ; and while they bickered she cursed each in turn
under her breath, and having done, stepped forward before
their faces. " Hear me, you wrangling pirates ! you that
fall out in sharing what you have pillaged from me. Yes,
tremble ; if not as subjects before their reigning queen, then
as rebels before their deposed one —

Richard was the first to recover speech. " Foul, wrinkled
witch ! what hath brought thee here ? Wast thou not
banished on pain of death ?"

" I was, but for me death has no pains." She turned
from one to another. " Where is my husband ? my son ?
my kingdom ? Yours should be the sorrows I bear."

" Thou bearest the curse laid on thee by my father in that
hour when thou didst crown him in mockery and offer, to
dry his tears, the kerchief steeped in his child's innocent
blood. God, not any of us, has scourged thee." And all
forgot for a moment their quarrels and joined in cursing
their common enemy.

" What ! You were snarling, all of you, till I came.
You were ready to fly at each other's throat, and now you
turn all your hatred upon me ! Curse, can you ? and believe
your curses reach the ear of Heaven ? Nay, then, listen
to mine." She faced upon the Queen, " May Edward thy
son, now Prince of Wales, die for Edward my son who was
Prince of Wales — and die young and by violence ! Mayst
thou outlive thy queenly glory as I have done, and live long
to lament thy children as I lament mine ; live, as I live, to

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 269

see another decked in thy rights, and so end — neither mother,
nor wife, nor Queen of England ! Rivers and Dorset, you
stood by — and you, too, my Lord Hastings — when my boy
was stabbed. I pray God that none of you live to reach
your natural end !"

" Have done !" Richard commanded.

" What, and leave thee out ? Stay, thou dog, for thou
shall hear me. If God have in His store any punishment
exceeding the worst I can wish for thee, I pray Him to keep
it until thy sins be ripe and then visit thee, thou troubler of
the peace of this poor world ! May the worm of conscience
then gnaw thy soul ; mayst thou suspect thy friends for
traitors, and take traitors for thy friends ; let no sleep visit
thee save with dreams of devils in torment — thou twisted,
monstrous, rooting hog, sealed at thy birth to be hell's own
son ! Thou —

Richard alone had courage to interrupt her curse with a
jeering laugh ; the others cowered before her. " Have
done !" protested Buckingham ; " for shame if not for
charity's sake !"

She turned upon him, too, but without anger. " I have
no quarrel with thee, princely Buckingham. Fair befal thee
and thy house ! Only beware of yonder dog " — she pointed
a finger at Richard — " When he fawns, he bites ; when he
bites his tooth is poisonous, and the wound mortal. Beware,
have not to do with him ; for sin, death, hell, have set their
marks on him, and all their ministers wait on him. What ?"
— for Buckingham shrugged his shoulders — " you scorn my
warning ? O, but remember it in the day coming when he
shall split your heart with sorrow ! Then say that Margaret
was a prophetess!" In one long final gaze of hatred she
gathered up all the others. " To Richard's hate I commit
you, and Richard to yours, and all of you to God's !"

They stared after her in silence, or muttering that such
curses made the hair stand on end. " Poor soul !" Richard
heaved a sigh, " she hath been heavily wronged, and I repent

270 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

my share in her wrongs." The others suspected no mockery
in his creaking voice. " I never did her any wrong to my
knowledge," the Queen protested. "But you have all
profited by her wrongs," Richard answered. " For my
part I was too hasty to help someone who seems to have
forgotten my help; while as for Clarence" — he sighed
again—" he is near his reward. May God pardon them
who are to blame for it !"

With this most Christian conclusion, while the others
passed into the sick King's room, Richard lingered to give
audience to two ruffians whom he had kept in waiting. In
a few words he gave them their instructions, with the
warrant for Clarence's death, and then he too passed into
the sick-chamber.

In his cell in the Tower Clarence still trusted that Richard
would gain his release. He guessed nothing of this
treachery, or of the doom surely approaching. Yet horrible
dreams haunted his sleep. " O," he confessed to Braken-
bury, who came in the morning to wake him, " I have passed
a miserable night ! — a night of dreams so hideous, so full of
dismal terror, that, as I am a Christian, I would not spend
such another were it to purchase a whole world of happy
days."

Brakenbury begged him to recount his dream.

" I dreamed," said Clarence, " I had broken from the
Tower here and taken ship to cross over to Burgundy ; and
that my brother Gloucester was with me, and tempted me
from my cabin to walk on the hatches, on the poop. Stand
ing there we looked back upon England, and called up in
talk the thousand times we had stood in peril during the
wars between York and Lancaster. As we paced side by
side on that giddy foothold methought Gloucester stumbled,
and in falling, as I tried to save him, struck me overboard
into the billows. God ! what pain it seemed to drown !
What dreadful noise of waters roared in my ears ! What
ugly shapes of death passed in my eyes ! Brakenbury ! I

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 271

saw there a thousand fearful wrecks — ten thousand bodies of
men on whom the fishes were gnawing — wedges of solid
gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, gems, and jewels
beyond price scattered on the floor of the sea. Some of
these lay in dead men's skulls, shining in the sockets where
eyes had been, and leering on the dead bones strewn by them
along the slimy bottom."

" What ! In the moment of death you had leisure to mark
these things."

" It seemed so ; and often I strove to yield up the ghost,
but the flood held in my soul, and would not suffer it to
escape forth on the empty wandering air, though I choked
and panted to cast it free. Nor with this was the horror
ended. For when my soul at length burst free and passed
across the ferry of death and stood shivering and strange on
the dark bank beyond, the first to greet me was my great
father-in-law, Warwick ; and he cried aloud, ' What scourge
can hell afford for Clarence, perjured Clarence ?' So he
vanished : and then came wandering by a shade like an
angel, with bright hair dabbled in blood, and lifted a thin
voice crying, ' Clarence is come ! False, fleeting, perjured
Clarence is come, who stabbed me in the field beside
Tewkesbury ! Furies, seize on Clarence and drag him to
your torments !' And with that a legion of foul devils were
about me howling in my ears so shrilly that with the noise I
awoke trembling, and for a while could not believe but that
1 was truly in hell."

" My lord, I cannot marvel that you were frightened ; for
it frights me even to hear."

" O Brakenbury," groaned Clarence, " I have done those
things, which now bear witness against my soul, for my
brother Edward's sake. See how he requites me ! Yet, O
God, if my prayers come too late to appease Thee, and for
me there is no forgiveness — yet spare my innocent wife and
my poor children !" He begged Brakenbury to sit by
him; and Brakenbury drew a chair beside the bed and

272 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

watched until the eyes of the unhappy man closed and he
slept.

Brakenbury was still watching when the sound of a harsh
voice startled and fetched him to his feet. In the open
doorway of the cell stood two ruffianly-looking men. "In
God's name," the Lieutenant asked, " what are you, and how
came you hither ?" They handed him a warrant. It briefly
commanded him to deliver over to the bearers the person of
the Duke of Clarence. " I must not ask," said he, " what is
meant by this " — though he knew only too well. " Here are
my keys ; there lies the Duke sleeping." He left to report
to the King that he had resigned his charge.

" Shall we stab him while he sleeps ?" They were in two
minds how to do it when Clarence awoke and sat up, rubbing
his eyes. " Keeper, a cup of wine !" he called ; and his eyes
falling on the intruders, he demanded, as Brakenbury had
done, " In God's name, who are you ? — Who sent you
hither, and why?" As his eyes sought theirs and the two
men stammered, he read their purpose. " To murder me ?"

" Ay, ay," growled the pair.

" But how, friends, have I offended you ?"

" You have not offended us, but the King."

" I shall be reconciled to him."

" Never, my lord. You had best prepare to die."

" But what is my offence ?" the Duke pleaded. They
could answer little but that they were obeying the King's
orders. " I love my brother Edward," he insisted. " If you
are hired to do this thing, go back, seek out my brother
Gloucester. He shall pay you better for my life than ever
the King will to hear of my death."

" You are deceived," said the softer-hearted of the two.
" Your brother Gloucester hates you."

But Clarence would not believe this. " When I parted
with him he hugged me in his arms, and with sobs swore
that he would labour to set me at liberty."

" My lord, make your peace with God," commanded the

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 273

sterner ruffian. But the other was moved by pity and more
than half regretted his errand. Clarence read this in his
looks and turned to him with a piteous appeal, thus giving
his back to the resolute one, who crept up knife in hand.
" Look behind you, my lord !" cried the man he addressed.
But it was too late. Before Clarence could turn, the knife
entered his back and he dropped without another word. In
the next room there stood a butt full of Malmsey wine.
"He called for wine," said the murderer grimly ; " and he
shall have it." He dragged out the body and plunged it
into the butt. The other stood conscience-stricken. " Take
the full fee," he told his comrade ; " I will have none of it."

Nor was he alone in repenting the deed. Edward, feeling
his end near, had already sent to revoke his warrant. He
wished to die in peace with all men, and to leave them in
peace one with another; and the court factions had met
beside his bed and been reconciled, at any rate to all
appearances. Hastings had shaken hands and embraced
with Rivers, Dorset and the Queen. Buckingham, conjured
by Edward to join this league of amity, had sworn to the
Queen an oath which she and he had afterwards good cause
to recall. " Madam," said he, " if ever I fail to cherish you
and yours with all duteous love, may God punish me with
the hatred of those to whom I look for love ! When I have
sorest need of a friend and turn to him most confidently,
may he prove hollow, treacherous, guileful. This is my
prayer to God if ever I am cold in zeal to you or yours."

While he spoke, Gloucester entered ; and he too entreated
to be friends with all assembled. " I do not know an English
man living with whom I have more quarrel than a new
born infant. I thank God for my humility," he concluded
unctuously. Said the Queen, " This shall be kept hereafter
as a holy day. I would to Heaven that all quarrels were
healed, and I beseech your Majesty to take our brother
Clarence back to your loving favour."

Richard gave a start of well-feigned indignant surprise.

18

274 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" Madam, have I offered love for this — to be mocked in the
King's own presence ? Which of you knows not that
Clarence is dead ?" It was now their turn to start. There
was not one in the room but turned pale at the word. " You
should not insult a corpse," he added quietly.

" Dead ?" " Clarence dead ?" They stared at each other.

" Clarence dead ?" gasped the dying King. " But the
order was reversed."

" Ay, my lord : but the second messenger ran too slowly.
God grant that some, less noble than he and less loyal,
nearer in thoughts of bloodshed if not so near in blood,
deserve no worse than poor Clarence and yet escape
suspicion !"

Now while they yet stood aghast, Lord Stanley came
hurriedly into the presence-chamber and without observing
their faces cast himself at the King's feet. He had a boon
to beg. A servant of his had slain a gentleman in the
Duke of Norfolk's service, and he had come hastily to plead
for the man.

" Oh, peace !" groaned the King. " Canst thou not see
that my soul is full of sorrow ?" But Stanley could not see
how untimely his interruption was, and refused to rise.
Edward groaned again. " And I who doomed my brother
to death must with the same tongue pronounce pardon on a
slave ! My brother slew no man ; yet he is dead, and who
sued for his pardon ? Who kneeled at my feet and bade my
rage be better advised ? Who spoke of brotherhood or of
love ? Who reminded me how the poor soul forsook Warwick
to fight for me ? or how he rescued me at Tewkesbury from
under Oxford's sword ? or of the night when we lay side by
side in the open field, half -frozen, and he plucked off his own
garments and wrapped me in them while he shivered ? All
this my wrath took from my remembrance, and not a man
of you had the grace to put me in mind of it. But when
your carters or serving-men have done some drunken murder
and defaced Christ's image, then you are on your knees at

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 275

once crying 'Pardon, pardon'; and I, as unjust as you,
must grant it ! But for my brother not one of you had a
word ; no, nor had I a word to plead with myself for poor
Clarence. God, I fear Thy justice will seize on us and on
ours for this !" And moaning, " Clarence ! O poor Clarence !"
Edward was borne to his chamber, never to leave it alive.

The Queen herself carried the news of his death a few
days later to the old Duchess of York, Edward's mother,
as she sat in her own apartments mourning for her other son
Clarence, with Clarence's children beside her. Elizabeth's
younger boy, Richard Duke of York, was at home in
London ; but the elder, Edward Prince of Wales and now
heir to the throne, had been sent to Ludlow Castle in
Shropshire. Thence he must now be fetched home to be
crowned, and Gloucester, who had whispered his plans to
Buckingham, undertook this duty. " We had better bring
him with a small escort," Buckingham suggested.

" Why with a small escort ?" asked Rivers.

" Because, my lord, in times so unsettled a multitude
would merely provoke enemies and give them moreover a
dangerous suspicion that we are afraid."

" I hope," put in Richard with meaning, " the King made
peace between all of us. I at any rate abide by my pledged
word."

Rivers agreed. " Yes, as you say, a big escort would
suggest strife, and so I vote with my lord of Buckingham
for a small one." He was the better pleased that this small
escort included by arrangement all the young prince's uncles
— himself and Grey as well as Gloucester. And so they
set out.

But two of the uncles never returned. While the Queen
sat expecting news at Westminster, and with her Arch
bishop Rotherham of York, the Chancellor, waiting to
surrender the Great Seal to the new King, there arrived
a messenger with the heavy news that Rivers, Grey, and
Sir Thomas Vaughan, another kinsman of the Woodvilles,

lS—2

276 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

had been arrested at Northampton and sent under guard
northward to Pomfret Castle. Richard and Buckingham
had struck their first blow. At once Elizabeth's heart told
er of other and worse blows to come. " I see the downfall
of all our house," cried she ; and taking the Seal from the
hands of the Archbishop she fled with her younger son to the
Abbey for sanctuary.

The young King was sad and dispirited as he drew near
the capital, as though he felt himself stepping into the
shadow of doom. He missed his uncles Rivers and Grey.
" You have not yet fathomed this world's deceit," Gloucester
assured him ; " those uncles of yours were dangerous. God
save your Majesty from all such false friends !"

" God keep me indeed from false friends !" sighed the
boy ; " but they were none."

Nor could he hide his dejection when the Lord ]\layor
came out in full state to welcome him. " I thank you, my
Lord Mayor, and all of you. I thought my mother and my
brother wrould have met us on the way long before this.
And where is Hastings, who should bring news of them ?"

At this moment Hastings appeared, but with ill news.
" Your mother and your brother York have taken sanctuary
in the Abbey. The young duke wished greatly to come, but
his mother would not allow it."

" What peevish caprice is this of the Queen's ?" exclaimed
Buckingham, and turned to the Archbishop of Canterbury,
Cardinal Bouchier. " Will your Grace persuade her to send
the Duke of York at once to the Prince, his brother ? If
she refuse— my Lord Hastings, go you with the Cardinal
and take the child from her."

The Cardinal shook his head. " My lord of Buckingham,
if my weak oratory can persuade her, you may expect the
Prince ; but I cannot, for all this land is worth, be guilty of
infringing the holy privilege of sanctuary."

"You stand too much upon ceremony, my lord Cardinal.
These times call for blunter methods. The benefit of

278 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

sanctuary is granted to those who either deserve it or have
the wit to claim it. But of a child's claiming or deserving
it I never heard yet."

The Archbishop accepted the argument and departed on
his cowardly errand.

" Say, uncle " — the boy- King turned to Gloucester — " if our
brother comes, where will you lodge us until our coronation ?"

" Wherever your Majesty pleases. If I may advise,
though, let it be the Tower for a day or two, and thereafter
in whatever place you choose as best fitting your Majesty's
health and recreation."

" I do not like the Tower of all places. Did not Julius
Caesar build it, my lord ?"

" He began the building of it, my gracious lord," Bucking
ham answered ; " later ages have rebuilt and added to it."

"That Julius Caesar," mused the boy, "was a famous
man." His eyes brightened; "I'll tell you what, cousin
Buckingham "

" What, my gracious lord ?"

" If I live to be a man, I'll win back our ancient rights in
France, or else die a soldier !"

" Short summers have forward springs," muttered
Gloucester under his breath.

Young Richard of York, whom Hastings and the Arch
bishop now brought from the Abbey, was forward in a
different way. Less melancholy and reflective than his
brother, he had a sharper tongue, and made no secret of his
dislike -for his uncle Gloucester, who in return listened to
his childish, pert sayings and answered them with grim
humour. " Will it please you to pass along, my lord ?" he
said at length ; " my cousin Buckingham and I will go to
your mother and beg her to go to the Tower and welcome
you there."

"The Tower!" The poor lad turned to his brother.
" What, are we to go to the Tower ?"

" Our uncle will have it so," said Edward sadly.

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 279

" I shall not sleep quietly in the Tower," young Richard
declared.

" Why ? what should you be afraid of ?" asked Gloucester.

" Marry, of my uncle Clarence's ghost. My grandmother
told me he was murdered there."

" That boy is his mother's own child," Gloucester growled,
as the procession moved on. He would deal with these boys
in time ; for the moment it sufficed to have them safe under
lock and key while he turned to a preliminary piece of work.
Buckingham — he was not quite sure how far Buckingham
would go in the end — but Buckingham would help in this.
He thought he could count too on another accomplice
present, one Catesby, a lawyer, who had owed his rise to
Hastings, and was known to have Hastings' confidence.
Buckingham had already sounded Catesby on Richard's
behalf, and had assured himself the man was ready to turn
traitor to his old master ; and now on Richard's behalf he
put the all-important question, " Will it, think you, be an
easy matter to persuade Lord Hastings to join us in setting
the Duke of Gloucester here on the throne ?"

" It will not," Catesby answered confidently. " The Lord
Chamberlain loves the young King for his father's sake, and
cannot be won to move a finger against him."

" H'm ... and Lord Stanley ?"

" Lord Stanley will follow Lord Hastings."

" Well, well, no more of this, then. Go you and sound
Lord Hastings discreetly, and bid him attend a Council
to-morrow at the Tower. Be cautious with him and bring
us word. There will be two Councils to-morrow, Catesby ;
and you shall have an important share in them."

"Ay," said Richard, breaking silence at length, "go,
Catesby ; commend me to my Lord Hastings, and tell him
from me that his old enemies the Woodvilles will be let
blood to-morrow at Pomfret Castle."

Catesby hurried off with a promise to return ere evening
and report. Buckingham gazed after him. " My lord," he

280 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

turned to Richard, "what shall we do if Hastings prove
stubborn ?"

"Chop off his. head, man," was Richard's short answer.
" And look you here ; when I am King you may claim of me
the Earldom of Hereford with its properties which the late
King, my brother, enjoyed."

" I will claim that promise," said Buckingham, and the
pair went off to arrange the plot over supper.

That night, while Hastings lay asleep, there came a
knocking at his door and a messenger entered from Lord
Stanley. Stanley had been troubled by an ugly dream, and
some news which might or might not be uglier. In his
dream he had encountered with a wild boar, and the brute
had shorn away his helm with its tusks. Now a wild boar
was the Duke of Gloucester's private badge. The news was
that two Councils had been determined on for the morrow.
" My master," said the messenger, " fears that one Council
may determine that which may make him and you rue
attending the other ; and he sends to know if you will take
horse at once and post northward with him out of danger."

Hastings laughed at these fears. " Return to your master
and bid him not be afraid of these separate Councils. He
and I will attend the one, and my servant Catesby the other,
who may be trusted to report anything which concerns us.
His dream is a foolish one. Bid him rise and come to me
and we will go to the Tower together."

The messenger had scarcely departed when Catesby entered.

" Ha, Catesby ? You are an early riser. What news of
this tottering state of ours ?"

" It is a tottering state indeed," said Catesby gravely; and
then with a sharp look at his master, " I believe it will
never stand upright again until Richard wear the crown of
England."

"How! Richard the King of England? I'll lose my
head first. Is that what he aims at, think you ?"

" I am sure of it ; and, moreover, he hopes for your good

KING RfCHARD THE THIRD 281

help, and on the strength of it sends you word that this very
day your enemies, the Queen's kinsmen, are to die at Pomfret."

" Well, I am not sorry to hear it ; they were always my
enemies. But if Richard thinks I'll help him to oust my
late master's true heirs, God knows I'll die sooner."

"And may God keep your lordship in that mind," said
Catesby. Hastings suspected no irony. His mind was
running on the fate of his old enemies. " I shall laugh at
this a year hence. To think that those who once thrust
me out of my master's favour have come to this, and I live to
see it. Catesby, I tell thee that before I'm a fortnight older
I shall send some folks packing who little expect it."

" It is a vile thing to die, my lord," said Catesby musingly,
" when it takes men unprepared."

But the confident Hastings still suspected nothing.
Indeed for a moment he saw no bearing in the remark.
" Eh ? Oh, monstrous, monstrous ! And so it happened to
Rivers and Vaughan and Grey ; and so it will happen —
mark my words — with some others who think themselves as
secure as you and I, friends as we are with Richard and
Buckingham." He looked up to welcome Lord Stanley,
who entered at this moment, and to rally him. " Come on,
come on ; why, man, where is your boar-spear ?"

" Good-morrow, my lord ; good-morrow, Catesby. You
may jest as you will," said Stanley, " but for my part I don't
like these separate Councils."

But Hastings pooh-poohed his fears, even when reminded
that the Queen's kinsmen had been jocund and confident too
as they rode from London. He set forth in the highest
spirits. On his way to the Tower he ran against a pursuivant
who had once escorted him prisoner along this very road.
" I am in better case, man, than when last I met thee.
Then I was going to prison through the malice of the
Queen's party ; to-day— hark ye, and keep it to yourself—
those enemies are to die and I am in better state than ever."
He flung the fellow a purse. A little further he met a

282 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

priest, and stopped to arrange with him for a service in his
private chapel. Buckingham coming along the street just
then found them conferring.

"What, talking with a priest, my Lord Chamberlain?
Your friends at Pomfret will be needing a priest this
morning ; but you surely have no need for shriving."

" Faith now," said Hastings, as they walked on towards
the Tower together, " when I met the holy man those you
mention came into my head."

Up in Yorkshire in the same cold dawn, Rivers, Grey,
and Vaughan were being led out to die ; Rivers calm, Grey
reviling, Vaughan prophesying a retribution to come, but
all remembering Margaret's curse and hugging in their last
hour the remembrance that with them she had cursed others
— Hastings, Buckingham, Richard . . . " O God, remember
her prayers for them as for us !"

In London the Council — the second Council — had met.
Buckingham, Hastings, Stanley were there, with Morton,
Bishop of Ely, Ratcliffand Lovel (two partisans of Richard),
and others. Richard himself was late, and they fell to
business without him. They had to decide on the young
King's coronation ; or, rather (said Hastings, coming to the
point at once), to fix the day for it.

" Is everything ready for it ?" asked Buckingham casually.

" Certainly," answered Stanley, reading no second mean
ing in the question ; " the day only needs to be named."

" To-morrow, then, seems to me none too soon," said
Bishop Morton.

Buckingham glanced round. " I wonder now if any one
knows the Lord Protector's mind on this matter ? Who is
most in the Duke of Gloucester's secrets ?"

" We think your Grace should know his mind sooner than
any one," said Morton.

" Who ? I ? He and I know each other's faces, my

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 283

lord ; but as for our hearts, he knows no more of mine than
I do of yours ; nor I more of his than you of mine," — and
this was truer than the speaker guessed. " Lord Hastings,
you have his loving confidence."

" Well, I believe so," agreed that deluded man. " It is
true that I have not sounded him on this matter ; but if you
will name the time, my lords, I will take it on myself to
agree in the Duke's name and feel sure he will approve."

But at this moment Richard appeared in the doorway
with a smile on his face. With an apology and a light
compliment to Hastings, he turned towards the Bishop,
" My lord, when last I was in Holborn I saw some famous
strawberries there in your garden. Might I beg you to send
for some ?"

"With all my heart," said the Bishop, and went off to
give the order. No sooner was his back turned than
Richard drew Buckingham aside and whispered to him
what he had heard from Catesby — that Hastings would not
join them against the young King. The pair left the
Council together.

So when Bishop Morton returned, having sent for the
strawberries, he looked around and inquired what had
become of the Lord Protector. " He looks in good temper
to-day, does he not?" said Hastings; "I believe there's no
man whose face hides his love or hatred less than his Grace
of Gloucester's." The fond man was rubbing his hands
with satisfaction when Richard and Buckingham came
hurriedly back into the room, and this time Richard's face
was twisted with passion. "Tell me" — his vicious eye
swept the Council — " what do they deserve who are caught
planning devilish witchcraft against me, and have actually
prevailed upon my body with their hellish charms ?"

In the general astonishment, Hastings was the first to find
his tongue. " The love I bear your Grace makes me most
favoured to speak. I say that such persons deserve death."

" See here, then." Richard pulled up his sleeve and

284 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

showed his withered arm ; he was making his deformity
help him now. " See this arm of mine shrivelled up like a
blasting sapling ! It is Edward's wife who hath done this —
that monstrous witch !"

"If they have done this, my lord — " stammered Hastings.

"/// Thou talkest of <ifs'! Thou art a traitor!
Lovel and Ratcliff, off with this fellow's head! By St.
Paul, I will not dine till I see it. You that are my friends
here, rise and follow me !"

He dashed from the room. Too late the befooled man
saw the trap, and repented his vain confidence, and called
out upon his murderers. With a brutal jest, Ratcliff and
Lovel hurried him to the block. Meanwhile Richard and
Buckingham had sent Catesby in hot haste for the Lord
Mayor, and employed the interval in disfiguring their clothes
until they looked like men under some blight of witchcraft.
The Lord Mayor came hurrying as fast as his legs would
bring him, and not in the least knowing why he was
summoned. They called to him from the walls, and claimed
his protection. They were in danger — victims of a plot.
"Look behind thee !" called Richard, as the Lord Mayor
halted by the drawbridge completely puzzled. " Here are
enemies !" But the newcomers were Lovel and Ratcliff
bearing the head of the unhappy Hastings. Richard heaved
a mock sigh of relief. "I loved the man so dearly, I
must weep. I took him for the plainest, most harmless

creature " Buckingham caught up the cue : "He was

the subtlest most covert traitor that ever lived ! Would
you believe it, my Lord Mayor, were it not that by a
miracle we have escaped to tell it, that traitor had plotted to
murder me and the good Duke of Gloucester to-day in the
Council-house."

"Eh? What? Had he indeed?" The Lord Mayor
could only stammer astonishment.

" What ? Can you think for a moment we would have
had the villain executed without form of law had not the

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 285

instant peril to us and the peace of England compelled us ?"
Richard was virtuously indignant.

" Dear me, dear me ! No doubt you did well and he
deserved it," agreed the Lord Mayor.

"And yet," Richard went on, "we had not intended that
he should die until your lordship should be present to witness
his death. The zealous rage of our friends here somewhat
outrun our intention. We wished,, my lord, that you should
hear him confess his treason, and report to the citizens, who
may perhaps misconstrue what we have done."

" Not at all," said this very foolish Lord Mayor. " Your
Grace's word shall serve as well as though I had been here
and heard him confess. Be assured I will acquaint our
dutiful citizens with the step you have justly taken." And
he departed on his errand..

Now was the moment for action. The pair had prepared
their plans well— and almost too well, since it was discovered
later that although the indictment of Hastings was published
within five hours after his arrest, the scrivener employed to
draw it up had done his work so elaborately and in such
beautiful penmanship that the veriest child could see it had
taken twice that time at least to prepare, and therefore that
the whole plot must have been arranged not long beforehand.
But just now men did stop to think. Richard was ready
with his trump-card — Edward's early contract of marriage
and the consequent illegitimacy of the two young Princes.
He was of course too clever to play it himself. He sent
Buckingham off on the Lord Mayor's heels to hint it to the
assembled citizens in the Guildhall ; he had provided
eloquent preachers — notably two named Doctor Shaw and
Friar Penker — to proclaim it publicly ; and having fired the
train he withdrew quietly to his mother's house, Baynard's
Castle by the Thames' side, to await results and plan a
further piece of villainy which he doubted might be too
strong even for Buckingham.

And yet the business did not proceed quite so smoothly as

286 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

he had hoped. Buckingham in the Guildhall cast away
reserve, and spoke boldly of Edward's early contract of
marriage, winding up with " God save King Richard !" —
but the citizens were dumb. They desired above all things
peace ; they feared that under a boy-king the country must
be torn by new dissensions; the Wars of the Roses had
exhausted and wearied them utterly. It would be a blessing
to be ruled by a strong man. And yet they had liked Edward
and guessed that injustice was intended against his children.

Buckingham demanded the reason why they kept silence.
The Lord Mayor answered that the citizens were accustomed
to be addressed through the City Recorder, and did not
understand being talked to by a stranger. So the Recorder -
was brought forward and rehearsed the arguments, not as
his own, but as Buckingham's, speaking in his most formal
voice — " The Duke says this," " The Duke argues so and
so." At the conclusion some hired followers of Buckingham
at the lower end of the hall tossed up their caps and cheered
for Richard. It was little enough, but Buckingham made
the most of it. " Thanks, my friends — thanks, gentle
citizens !" said he, bowing ; " this general applause proves
your wise affection for Richard," and with this he managed
to bring the Lord Mayor with a considerable following to
Baynard's Castle.

The position was ticklish ; but the pair were clever enough
to save it. When the Lord Mayor craved audience, Richard
at first sent Catesby to refuse it. The Duke of Gloucester
(so ran the message) was at his devotions with two reverend
fathers of the Church. He was loth to be disturbed on a
matter of worldly business. Could not his lordship defer it
to some other day ? Buckingham sent Catesby again with
word that the matter was urgent, and used the interval to
dwell on Richard's godly graces — so different from the idle
wantonness of their late King ! At length, with feigned
reluctance, Richard made his appearance on a balcony
above, standing between two bishops and with a book of

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 287

prayer in his hand. This mightily impressed the Lord
Mayor. Buckingham began with an apology for interrupt
ing his Grace's devotion, and went on to press him to accede
to the popular wish and accept the crown. Gloucester
gravely rebuked him. He would depart in silence, but for
the fear that his silence might be misconstrued. He thanked
them for their affectionate zeal ; but felt himself unworthy
of it. He was poor-spirited, perhaps ; conscious of his
defects, at any rate. But, thank God ! he was not needed.
The late King had left an heir — young, no doubt, but time
might be trusted to better that. And in short he would not
wrest the child's right from him.

Buckingham plunged into a speech arguing against young
Edward's legitimacy, and wound up by offering the crown
again. The Lord Mayor joined in the petition. Again
Richard refused. " Then whether you accept or no, your
nephew shall never reign King of England. Come, citizens ;
I'll entreat him no more !" Buckingham flounced out with an
oath. " Nay, my lord of Buckingham, do not swear,"-
Richard was piously shocked — hurt even. Well, Bucking
ham was gone ; but Catesby and others implored the arch-
hypocrite to call him back. " Will you force me to bear
this grievous burden ?" he sighed. Buckingham was recalled,
and came with his following.

" Cousin, and you other sage, grave men, since you will
bind this load upon me, I must find patience to bear it.
Should scandal arise from my acceptance, remember that
you forced it on me. For God knows, and you in a measure
must see, how far I am from desiring it."

The Mayor and his silly crowd waved their hats and, led
by Buckingham, cheered for King Richard. He should be
crowned on the morrow, Buckingham proposed. " When
you please, since you will have it your own way," said
Richard ; and turning to the bishops — " Come, it is time we
applied ourselves again to our holy task."

Early next morning two separate trains of ladies met at

288 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

the Tower gate. They were on the one side the Queen and
the old Duchess of York, escorted by the Queen's son,
Dorset ; and on the other the Lady Anne, now Richard's
wife, leading with her the young daughter of Clarence,
Both companies had come to wish joy to the young Princes;
both were ignorant of what had happened at Baynard's
Castle.

Brakenbury came out to meet them. " Pardon, madam,'
said he, addressing the Queen, " I may not allow you to
visit the Princes. The King has given strict orders to the
contrary."

" The King ! why, who's that ?"

"Your pardon, madam, again — I should have said the
Lord Protector."

" The Lord protect him from being King ! I am their
mother."

" And I their father's mother," said the Duchess.

"And I, "said Anne, " their aunt-in-law, but I love them
as a mother. Take us to them, sir, and I will take to myself
the blame."

Still Brakenbury shook his head; and, looking up, the
ladies were aware that Lord Stanley stood before them with
a message to deliver.

" Madam," said Stanley, addressing Anne, " I am sent to
conduct you to Westminster, there to be crowned Richard's
Queen."

Then Elizabeth understood. For the moment half-stunned
by the news, she recovered, and turned on her son, Dorset.
" Fly !" she panted. " Thou too art my child, and my name
is ominous to my children. Quick — cross the seas and seek
shelter with Richmond. Fly from this slaughter-house, lest
thou be added to the number of the dead, and I bow to the
full curse of Margaret, and die neither Queen nor wife nor
mother."

" Wisely counselled," said Stanley. " Make haste, my
lord, and you shall take from me letters to my son Rich-

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 289

mond." He turned to Anne, " We too must hasten, madam
— to Westminster."

And the poor lady went unwillingly enough, unenvied even
by the Queen whom she was to supersede. " Ah," she
confessed, " when beside Henry's corpse I set eyes on the
man who is now my husband, I cursed him and the woman
who should marry him. * May she be made wretched as I
am wretched,' I prayed ; and before I could repeat it his
tongue had beguiled me and I had basely surrendered — to
be his wife — to inherit my own curse ; I swear to you that
never since then have I enjoyed one quiet hour, one hour of
easy slumber beside him. He hates me ; soon, I know, he
will murder me."

So they parted; one to be crowned, the other to forget
that ever she had been a Queen, yet the one as heavy of heart
as the other. The old Duchess after eighty years of calamity
was almost past grieving. As they started to go their sorrow
ful ways Elizabeth suddenly stood still, " Stay," she cried,
" look once back with me !" She pointed towards the walls
of the Tower. " O have pity, you ancient stones, on those
tender babes by envy immured behind you. Rough cradle
are you for such little pretty ones. Harsh and rugged nurse
— old and sullen playfellow — ah, use my babies kindly !"

So Richard had reached his ambition, and was King of
England ; yet he could not feel safe while the boy lived who
was King by right. Would Buckingham help him to get
rid of Edward ? Richard was not sure. He dropped a hint
or two, eyeing his fellow-conspirator stealthily ; but somehow
Buckingham was less quick than usual in taking a hint.
Perhaps he was considering that the time had come to be
thinking of his own reward.

" Cousin," said Richard sharply, " you were not wont to
be so dull. Must I say it plainly ? Well then, I wish the
boys dead, and quickly. What say you ? Come — promptly,
man !"

19

290 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

" Your Grace may do as you please," Buckingham
answered evasively.

" Tut, tut ; your zeal must be cooling. Yes or no, do you
consent to their death ?"

" Your Grace must give me time — some little time-
before I can answer positively. I will think of it and bring
my answer without delay," — and so Buckingham made his
escape.

Richard frowned. " H'm ; ambitious Buckingham is
growing circumspect." It was as he had more than half
guessed. There were limits to Buckingham's wickedness,
and he lacked either the heart or the nerve for this. Richard
took account of all the dangers ahead. To begin with, there
were the Princes; well, he could manage them without
Buckingham's help. But their death would leave the
succession to their sister, the young Princess Elizabeth;,
and after her came Clarence's children, a boy and a girl.
The boy was half-witted and not dangerous ; the girl could
be married to some one of mean birth, which would keep
her out of the way. But what about young Elizabeth ?
He considered, and his brow cleared. Why might he not
marry her himself ? She was his niece, and he had a wife
living. Well, Anne must die. He called Catesby, and
ordered him to have it rumoured about that she was danger
ously ill — he would see to the rest. Even Catesby was
staggered, but obeyed.

Trn's marriage with a niece would be monstrous. " Murder
her brothers and afterwards marry her !" Richard muttered
it over in a kind of awe of himself ; but if awed he was not
afraid. He made inquiry and learned of a man likely to
suit his purpose — a gentleman by birth and byname Tyrrel,
poor, discontented, and ready to sell his soul for money.
Richard sent for him. Their conference was short. That
night Tyrrel, with two accomplices, named Dighton and
Probyn, entered the Tower and crept to the room where the
young Princes lay in bed, cheek to cheek, their arms girdling

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 291

each other, the book of prayers in which they had both been
reading open on the pillow beside them. The sight almost
melted the murderers' hearts ; the wretches wept afterwards
when they told what they had done — how they had drawn
the pillows tight over the young lips and smothered them.
Tyrrel handed the bodies over to the chaplain of the Tower,
who buried them secretly, and dying soon afterwards took
the secret to the grave with him.*

Tyrrel had scarcely left the King's presence before
Buckingham returned. He found Richard in talk with
Stanley, who had come to report that Dorset had escaped to
join Richmond.

" My lord," began Buckingham, " I have considered the
suggestion concerning which you sounded me."

" Well, well, let that pass," Richard was no longer inter
ested. " Dorset has escaped to join Richmond."

" So I hear, my lord," said Buckingham; and would have,
said more, but the King turned to Stanley.

" My lord Stanley," said he, " Richmond is your wife's
son. You had best be careful."

Buckingham was not rebuffed. " My lord, I have come
to claim my reward, the Earldom of Hereford, which you
faithfully promised me."

" Stanley," pursued Richard, " look to your wife. If she
be found conveying letters to Richmond you shall answer
for it."

" May I have your Highness's answer to my demand ?"
Buckingham persisted. Richard paid no heed to him, but
still addressing Stanley began to discuss the prophecy once
uttered by the unhappy Henry the Sixth that Richmond
should one day be King of England.

* Two hundred years later, in 1674, in the course of some alterations
in the White Tower, the workmen discovered the bones of two children.
These were at once guessed to be the bones of the two Princes, and by
Charles II. 's orders they were removed to Westminster Abbey, and
placed in Henry VII. 's Chapel there.

I9—2

292 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Still Buckingham persevered, until the King turned on
him sharply : " You annoy me with your interruptions. I
am not in the giving vein to-day." He walked out and left
Buckingham standing. "And it was for this I made him
King!" muttered the disappointed man. Suddenly there
came into his mind the thought of Hastings — of his con
fidence in Richard's favour, and of his fate. He took horse
in haste and posted away towards Wales and his manor of
Brecknock.

Now Morton, Bishop of Ely, lay in prison in Brecknock,
having been removed by Richard as an obstacle in his path
and put there under Buckingham's custody. Prisoner and
gaoler had now a common cause ; and the bishop presently
escaped over sea to Richmond, but not before arranging the
half of a dangerous plot. Buckingham was to raise a revolt
in Wales ; Richmond to sail from Brittany with an invading
army, and on reaching England, to confirm his somewhat
faulty title * to the throne by marrying the young Princess
Elizabeth.

We shall see how the revolt fared. As we know, Richard
had resolved to forestall one dangerous move in the plot by
marrying the Princess himself ; and before many days had
gone by the country learned that the unhappy. Anne was no
longer living. Murders by this time were crowding thick
and fast. Even Margaret as she haunted the court, hungry
for revenge, could say that her appetite was almost cloyed.
Margaret, Elizabeth, the old Duchess — these three had
passed beyond hatred; they could seat themselves on the
ground together, and recount and compare their woes, too
far crushed under calamity to bandy reproaches. Only
Margaret, whose wounds were older, could now and then
break out into taunts. " Ah, triumph no more in my woes,
thou wife of Henry !" pleaded Elizabeth : " God is my

* His Lancastrian descent was derived from John of Gaunt's marriage
with Katharine Swynford ; and the issue of that marriage had been
expressly debarred from the succession (see p. 222).

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 293

witness that I have wept for thine." " Bear with me,"
Margaret answered ; " only Richard remains now, and his
time is drawing near. Dear God, grant me life until I can
say that dog is dead !" " Ay, thou didst prophesy the time
when I should call on thee to help. me in cursing him. Do
not leave me, thou who art so skilled in cursing ; stay, and
teach me how to curse." "Shall I teach thee how? Put
away sleep at night ; fast by day ; compare thy dead
happiness with thy living woe ; think upon thy lost babes —
deem them fairer than they were, and their destroyer even
fouler than he is. That," said Margaret, " is the way to
learn to curse," " My words are dull," wailed Elizabeth ;
" oh, put life into them with thine !" " Thy woes will make
them pierce," said Margaret, and left the two women alone.
While they sat, Richard came by in state, and they lifted
their accusing voices together — " Where is Clarence ?
Where is young Edward ? Where are Hastings, Rivers,
Vaughan, Grey?"

" Silence !" snarled Richard, and turning commanded the
drums and trumpets to sound and drown their cries. " Now
then," he said, as the hubbub died down, " either speak to
me fair or your voices shall be silenced again."

The old Duchess, his mother, arose and pointed a finger
at him. " Grievous thy birth was to me ; thy infancy
peevish and wayward ; thy school-days frightful, desperate,
furious ; thy prime of manhood daring and venturous ; thy
full age proud, subtle, bloody, treacherous, milder but more
dangerous, masking hatred with kindly looks. Canst thou
name one hour in which I have had joy of thee ? Nay, let
me speak — for the last time. Thou art going to war, and
either thou wilt die in it, or I shall be dead of age and
sorrow ere thou returnest. . Therefore take my heaviest
curse with thee, and in the day of battle may it weigh thee
down more than thy heaviest armour. My prayers go with
thy enemies: may the little souls of Edward's children
whisper success to them and cheer them to victory ! Bloody

294 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

thou art ; bloody shall be thy end, and shameful as thy life
hath been shameful !"

She tottered away and left Richard and Elizabeth face to
face. Was it dogged defiance of shame — or was it faith in
his star — that he stopped Elizabeth as she too turned away,
and began to woo her for her daughter, very much as he
had once wooed the Lady Anne for herself ? Was it owing
to this difference — that he now wooed a woman for her
daughter, not for herself — or was it through some failure in
his own hateful fascination — that success this time eluded
him? And yet he seemed to be repeating his success.
Again the woman cursed and the man cajoled ; again the
woman seemed to weaken while against all odds, in the face
of hatred and loathing, his hands red with the blood of her
dearest, the man fought and fought for his end with an
unwearied persistence such as benumbs a rabbit and forces
it in the end to lie down and wait for the weasel. And
again the woman to all appearance yielded. She left him
with a promise to bring her daughter round to his mind.

" Relenting fool ! shallow, changing woman !" sneered
Richard as he gazed after her. But in fact she had over
reached him; or rather he had overreached himself. He
had killed too much in Elizabeth ; killed the ambitious
intriguing woman and left only the woman with a mother's
heart. It was the old Elizabeth to whom he had been
appealing ; the new Elizabeth — the woman he had made —
listened and promised and went her way — to give her
daughter to Richmond.

For Richmond was on the seas, intending to land on the
coast of Devon, and win a kingdom. The men of Devon
and the men of Kent were ready to rise, and by agreement
Buckingham marched in open rebellion to cross the Welsh
border. This was in October, 1483. As he started, a heavy
and extraordinary storm broke over the country. It rained
and blew for days. He reached Severn only to find it
sweeping in a flood which is spoken of to this day as " The

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 295

Great Water," or " Buckingham's Water." The King's
supporters had broken down the bridges ; and he found it
hopeless to think of uniting his Welsh forces with the
insurgents from Devon, for the whole country down to
Bristol was under water. The same gale drove Richmond's
ships back towards France. An eclipse of the moon
terrified Buckingham's Welshmen still further, and the
army melted away. The rebellion had been drowned out.
Buckingham fled to the house of a retainer named Bannister,
was betrayed — some say by his host — and executed in the
market-place of Salisbury.

He had begged — but in vain — to see Richard ; it is
believed, in the hope of a chance of stabbing him. The day
of his execution was All-Souls' Day (November 2nd), and
as he was led forth he thought on the many souls hurried
out of this life by his wickedness and remembered Margaret's
curse. " All-Souls' Day is my body's doomsday. This is
the day I wished might befall me when I was found false to
Edward's children and his wife's kin. All have perished
with my aid, and the curse has come upon me." He went
to the block muttering the words of Margaret's warning.

So ended the man who had been Richard's most useful
friend. Richard, the incarnate curse of the House of York,
had fulfilled his terrible mission ; in him the House of York
had devoured its own children ; he had executed judgment,
he stood alone on the stage he had drenched with blood, and
now Heaven had no further need of him and his own hour
was at hand.

Richmond, driven back on the French coast, bided his
time, and in 1485 sailed for England again. His voyage
prospered, and on August ist his ships dropped anchor in
Milford Haven. Richard, warned that he had started, had
pitched his camp at Nottingham as a central point of the
kingdom, and horsemen sat in saddle along all the chief
roads to gallop with tidings of the invader's approach.

Treachery was now what he had most to fear, and on

296 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

Stanley, as Richmond's stepfather, his suspicions rested
heaviest. He had good grounds for them ; but Stanley was
the wiliest fox in England. He detested Richard, he knew
himself suspected, and yet he had lived among bitter enemies
and never given the King a fair excuse to lay hands on him ;
had kept his level head on his shoulders, and seen Rivers,
Vaughan and Grey, Hastings and Buckingham each fall in
his turn. His sympathies lay with Richmond, but he could
not declare himself since Richard held his son George
Stanley as hostage, and would have chopped off his head at
the first sign of revolt. So the father followed his master
for the moment and bided his time.

In a fortnight after Richmond's landing the two armies
came face to face on Bosworth Field to the south of Market
Bosworth in Leicestershire. Desertions had weakened the
King's army in spite of his savage watchfulness. Yet he
kept the advantage of numbers and his old untameable
courage. There was this difference, however, that he, who
all his life long had feared neither God nor man nor devil,
was beginning at last to be uneasy about God. On the eve
of the battle he left his supper untasted, but drank great
bowls of wine. Catesby, Ratcliff, and Lovel remained
faithful to the master they had served so wickedly ; better
men stood by him in the staunch old Duke of Norfolk and
his son the Earl of Surrey. With a parting injunction that
Stanley should be watched and ordered to parade his troops
before sunrise, and some commands about preparing his
armour and saddling his charger White Surrey for the
morrow's battle, Richard dismissed his friends and flung
himself on the bed to sleep.

Hideous dreams haunted his sleep; visions of his many
victims passed by the bed, and leaning over it bade him
despair. There stood young Edward, stabbed at Tewkes-
bury, dabbled in blood, pointing to his wounds ; there stood
Clarence ; there stood Rivers, Grey, Vaughan ; there stood
Hastings; there stood the two murdered Princes; there

KING RICHARD THE THIRD 297

stood his wife Anne ; there stood his first friend and last
victim, Buckingham. " Let me sit heavy upon thy soul
to-morrow " — " Let me " — " And me "; one after the other
took up the terrible imprecation. " To-morrow — despair
and die !"

" Jesu, have mercy !" — Richard started from the bed in a
bath of terror. The candles burned blue by the bedside,
but the tent was empty. " I was dreaming . . . conscience
it is afflicting me. Oh, I am a villain ! . . . No, it is too
late to repent, to face the truth ... I am no villain ! . . .
Fool ! do not flatter thyself, when conscience has a thousand
tongues and each one denounces thee villain. . . . Perjury,
murder, sin upon sin thronging to the bar, each crying
' Guilty ! guilty !' . . . I must not despair ; not a creature
loves me ; and if I die not a soul shall pity me."

He was wiping the sweat from his brow when a hand
lifted the flap of the tent.

" My lord," said a voice.

" 'Zounds !" Richard swung around fiercely. " Who is
there ?"

" It is I, my lord — RatclifF. The cocks are crowing, and
thy friends buckling on their armour."

" O Ratcliff, I have had fearful dreams ! Will our friends
prove true to us, think you ?"

" I have no doubt of it, my lord."

" Yet, Ratcliff, I fear— I fear "

" Nay, my lord, do not fear shadows."

" By Saint Paul, shadows have done more to-night to
frighten the soul of Richard than can ten thousand armed
soldiers led on by that shallow Richmond."

He did on his armour. The day hung back dark and
ominous as he set his battle in order and rode down the
ranks. He heard the advancing drums of the enemy and
looked around him. " Where is Stanley ?" he demanded.

" My lord," said a messenger, "Lord Stanley will not
come."

298 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

« Off with his son George's head !" shouted Richard ; but
the enemy had already crossed the marsh, and Norfolk, who
led the King's van, pointed out that there was no time now
for small revenge. The troops swung forward, and then it
grew clear that Stanley was -not the only deserter. The
Earl of Northumberland drew his men out of call and so
passed over, foot and horse, to the invader. " Treason !
treason !" shouted Richard, and dashed into the thick of the
fray seeking for Richmond. He had never fought so
splendidly, because never so desperately. White Surrey
was stabbed and sank under him. " Another horse !" he
yelled ; " my kingdom for another horse !" While his men
gave ground, he yet pressed forward ; hewed his way to the
Lancastrian standard, tore it from its pole, trod the pole in
the ground, and still fought forward like a demon into the
very presence of Richmond. And there — a foot or two only
dividing them — as he aimed a murderous stroke at his rival,
a score of men rushed on him together and bore him to the
ground by sheer weight of numbers. Under that struggling
mass he took his death-stroke. They drew off; the body
did not move. They had pulled the wild boar down at last,
and the great curse was ended.

As he went down the crown had fallen from his head and
rolled beneath a hawthorn bush. Stanley picked it up and
set it on the brows of the conqueror.

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APPEN DIX

THE claim of the House of York to the throne can be
worked out with fair ease, I hope, from the foregoing table.
It is set forth clearly by Shakespeare in a conversation
between Richard, afterwards Duke of York, and the Earls
of Salisbury and Warwick (" Henry VI.," Part II., Act II.,
Scene 2) :

York. Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons :
The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales ;
The second, William of Hatfield ; and the third,
Lionel Duke of Clarence ; next to whom
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster ;
The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York ;
The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester ;
William of Windsor was the seventh and last.*
Edward the Black Prince died before his father,
And left behind him Richard, his only son,
Who after Edward the Third's death reign'd as king ;
Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,
The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,
Crown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth,
Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king,
Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,
And him to Pomfret ; where, as all you know,
Harmless Richard was murder'd traitorously.

Warwick. Father, the duke hath told the truth ;
Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.

York. Which now they hold by force and not by right ;
For Richard, the first son's heir, "being dead,
The issue of the next son should have reign'd.

Salisbury. But William of Hatfield died without an heir.

* Shakespeare reverses the order of these two. Thomas of Wood
stock was Edward's youngest son.

300

APPENDIX 301

York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line
I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter,
Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March :
Edmund had issue, Roger, Earl of March ;
Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor.

Salisbury. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,
As I have read, laid claim unto the crown ;
And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king,*
Who kept him in captivity till he died.t
But to the rest.

York. His eldest sister, Anne,

My mother, being heir unto the crown,
Married Richard Earl of Cambridge ; who was son
To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son.
By her I claim the kingdom : she was heir
To Roger Earl of March, who was the son
Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe,
Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence :
So, if the issue of the elder son
Succeed before the younger, I am king.

Warwick. What plain proceeding is more plain than this ?
Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,
The fourth son ; York claims it from the third.
Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign :
It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee
And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.
Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together ;
And in this private plot be we the first
That shall salute our rightful sovereign
With honour of his birthright to the crown.

* An error. The Edmund Mortimer taken prisoner by Glendower
was an uncle of Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, the true heir to
the Throne (seep. 118).

t Salisbury is again mistaken. This happened, not to Mortimer,
but to another captive and son-in-law of Glendower 's — Lord Grey of
Ruthven.

THE EXD

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD

ARNOLD'S LITERARY READING
BOOKS.

In Golden Realms.

An English Reading Book for Junior Forms. 224 pages.
Crown 8vo., cloth. Price Is. 3d.

Designed to form an introduction to the study of English Literature. Containing
folk-tales from various sources, stories from Homer, Virgil, the Beowulf poem,
Chaucer, Malory, Froissart, Spenser, Shakespeare, Barbour, Scott, Lamb, and
Washington Irving, and a large number of extracts from the works of the best
poets Illustrated with beautiful reproductions of twelve famous paintings, including
r' Sir Galahad," by G. F. Watts, R.A.

The Greenwood Tree.

An English Reading Book for Junior Forms. 224 pages. Crown
8vo. Price Is. 3d.

Designed as a stepping-stone to Literature and containing stories from the Greek
and Latin Classics, Red Indian and Maori Mythology and Nature lore, the
Icelandic Edda, Celtic tradition, etc., etc. ; with a collection of poems from some of
the leading poets. The illustrations consist of reproductions from famous paintings
representing country life by such artists as Angelica Kaufmann, George Morland,
George Wheatley, Sir Joshua Reynolds, K. Westall, and others.

Rambles in Bookland.

An English Reading Book for Junior Forms. Edited by C. E.
BYLES, B.A. 224 pages. Crown 8vo., cloth. Price Is. 3d.

Chips from a Bookshelf.

An English Reading Book for Junior Forms. Edited by H. B.
BROWNE, M.A. 224 pages. Crown 8vo., cloth. Price
is. 3d.

Both the above books are uniform with "In Golden Realms," and designed as an
introduction to some of the greatest poets and prose writers. Illustrated with repro
ductions of famous pictures.

Tellers of Tales.

Biographies of some English Novelists, with extracts from their
works. Edited by RICHARD WILSON, B.A. Crown 8vo.,
cloth. Price Is. 6d.

The novelists selected are Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Kingsley, Charles Reade,
C. Bronte, George Eliot, and R. L. Stevenson. This book has been found very
useful as a guide to the selection of books in the public library.

In the World of Books.

An English Reading Book for Middle Forms. 256 pages.
Crown 8vo., cloth. Price Is. 6d.

Designed to introduce the pupil to some of the greatest names in English Literature,
and consisting of extracts from their works arranged in chronological order, and
ranging from Catdmon to Tennyson. An excellent companion to " A First Course in
English Literature." Illustrated in a manner similar to " In Golden Realms."

LONDON : EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.

302

STEPS TO LITERATURE.

A Graduated Series of pure'y Literary Reading 'Books.

BOOK I. — Tales of the Homeland. 112 pages. Price

iod.

Folk-Tales and Fairy-Tales of our own Country, with simple Rhymes.
Illustrated from original drawings by GILBERT JAMES.

BOOK II.— Tales of Many Lands. 144 pages. Price is.

Folk-Tales and Fairy-Tnles of Foreign Lands, with simple Rhymes.
Illustrated from original drawings by GILBERT JAMES.

BOOK III. — Stories from English and Welsh Litera
ture. 192 pages. Price is. 3d.

Stories from the works of great writers, with simple Poems of the first
rank. A charming introduction to literature of the best kind.

BOOK III A.— Stories from the Literature of the

British Isles. 224 pages. Price is. 6d.

Stories from Literature and Folk-Lore of England, Wales, Scotland, and
Ireland. Poems of the various countries by leading posts.

BOOK IV.— Literary Reading's relating- to the Empire.

224 pages. Price is. 6d.

Legends and Myths of the Native Races of the Empire. Travel Tales of
Empire pioneers. Litemry Extracts describing great events in the
history of the Empire. Poems relating to the same subject.

BOOK V.— Literary Reading's relating- to Europe.

224 pages. Price is. 6d.

Tales from the Greek and Latin Classics, the Song of Roland, the Nibe-
hingen Lied, the Heimskringla Saga, and later Romances. Literary
Extracts from English. and American writers relating to the people or
countries of Europe, and introducing great names in European literature.
Poems from English literature with a European background.

BOOK VI. — Glimpses of World Literature. 256 pages.

Price is. 6d.

Extracts from the works of some of the greatest poets and prose writers of
the world, from Homer to Tennyson. Arranged roughly in chronological
order.

LONDON : EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.

303

ARNOLD'S ENGLISH TEXTS.

Edited by H. B. BROWNE, M.A., Assistant Master at Hymers
College, Hull. In 12 volumes. 96 pages. Limp cloth, price 6d.
each.

An entirely new series of texts for pupils from twelve to thirteen
years of age, and those who are taking the first two years in the four-year
course in English as suggested by the Board of Education. Also
suitable for Continuous Readers in the Upper Standards of Primary
Schools.

The Song of Hiawatha.

LONGFELLOW.

Marmion.

Scoi

Idylls of the King.

TENNYSON.

Hereward the Wake.

KlNGSLEY.

The Cloister and the

Hearth. CHARLES READE.

The Life of Nelson.

SOUTHEY.

Tanglewood Tales.

HAWTHORNE.

Gulliver's Voyage to Lilliput.

SWIFT.

The Pilgrim's Progress.

BUNYAN.

The Bible in Spain. BORROW.
The Natural History of Sel-

borne. GILBERT WHITE.

A Naturalist on the Ama
zons. BATES.

SPECIAL FEATURES.— The verse texts are chosen so as to give three
different styles of subject-matter and three different forms of verse.
The prose texts include specimens of historical romance, prose romance,
and descriptive prose ; uniformity in length of text, and systems of
punctuation and paragraph division ; the addition of marginal synopses ;
footnotes ; questions framed on modern lines.

THE ARNOLD PROSE BOOKS.

A new series of representative selections from leading prose
writers, each book confined to one author. A few explanatory
footnotes have been added.

24 books, each 48 pages. Paper, 2d. ; cloth, 4d.

i. Goldsmith,

a. Froissart.

3. Lamb.

4. Bacon.

5. Malory.

6. Gibbon.

7. Johnson.

8. Carlyle.

9. Macaulay.
10. Burke,
n. De Coverley Papers.
12. Boswell.
13. Kinglake.
14. Leigh Hunt.
15. Southey.
16. Borrow.

17. Motley.
18. Napier.
19. Addison.
20. Prescott.
21. Froude.
22. Thackeray.
23. Washington Irving.
24. Emerson.

LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.

304

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CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

PR Quiller-Couch, Arthur Thomas
2877 Historical tales from

Q62 Shakespeare
1910